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JJPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS; 


OR, 


THREE  CHAPTERS  IN  A  LIFE. 


BY 

ROSE   PORTER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SUMMER   DRIFT-WOOD  FOR  THE  WINTER  FIKE;" 
"FOUNDATIONS,  OR  CASTLES  IN  THE  ALB." 


NEW  YORK: 
ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 

900   BROADWAY,   COR.    2Oth   ST. 


PS 


Ufc 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Umgrew  m  the  year  IKtt,    f 

AN80N  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  *  CO , 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  CongreM  at  Waaotegton,  D  (X 


E.  O.  JENKINS,  ftOBCRT     RUTTI*. 

r«INTE»    AND    STCNCOTmR.  BINOIM. 

10  N.  WILLIAM  ST..  N.  T. 


TO    THE 

DEAR   ONE    IN   A   FOREIGN   LAND 

"PHIS    DIMPLE    JSTORY, 

WOVEN  OF   TRUTH  AND  FICTION, 
IS  LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED. 


WOODSIDH  COTTAGE, 

JULY,  1672. 


CHAPTER    FIRST. 


CHILDHOOD 


O  CHILD  !  O  new-born  denizen 

Of  life's  great  city  !     On  thy  head 

The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land." 

— LONGFELLOW. 


While  yet  a  child,  and  long  before  his  time, 

He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 

Of  greatness, — and  deeo  feelings  had  impressed 

Great  objects  on  his  mind,  with  portraiture 

And  color  so  distinct,  that  on  his  mind 

They  lay  like  substances,  and  almost  seemed 

To  haunt  the  bodily  sense.     He  had  received 

A  precious  gift ;  for,  as  he  grew  in  years, 

With  these  impressions  would  he  still  compare 

All  his  remembrances,  thoughts,  shapes,  and  forms  j 

And,  being  still  unsatisfied  with  ought 

Of  dimmer  character,  he  thence  attained 

An  active  power  to  fasten  images 

Upon  his  brain  ;  and  on  their  pictured  lines 

Intensely  brooded,  even  till  they  acquired 

The  liveliness  of  dreams." 

— WORDSWORTH. 


UPLANDS  AND   LOWLANDS 


i. 


rTlHIRTY  years  ago,  the  now  populous 

-L    town    of  W numbered    scarcely 

more  than  a  dozen  homes,  and  they  were  so 
unlike  the  stately  mansions  which  to-day  bor 
der  its  streets,  hardly  does  it  seem  fitting  to 
frame  their  name  in  the  same  alphabet  let 
ters.  Yet,  the  farm  houses,  scattered  over 
the  uplands,  the  cottages  so  rudely  built, 
with  unplaned  boards,  unpainted  walls,  were 
called  then  as  now,  by  that  little  word — that 
briefest  word  of  the  good  old  Saxon  tongue 
— Home ;  and,  simple  though  they  were, 
their  story  was  just  as  sweet  and  as  full  a 
story  of  pure  affections,  happy  hopes,  and 
tender  memories,  as  the  stately  mansions 
can  tell ;  for  hearts  were  the  same  then  as 
i*  (5) 


6  UPLANDS  AXD  LOWLANDS. 

now — hearts  that  loved  and  were  glad,  re 
joicing  in  the  sunshine  —  that  loved  and 
were  sorrowful,  mourning  in  the  dark 
ness. 

During  the  year  of  1840,  through  the  long 
twilight  of  the  summer  evenings,  sometimes 
quite  into  the  night,  when  the  moon  \v.. 
its  full,  the  sound  of  axe  and  hammer  were 
heard  from  down  by  the  lake-side,  where 
Enoch  Foster,  with  painstaking  toil  was 
building  a  little  nest — the  little  nest  which 
a  winsome  maiden  had  promised  to  fill  with 
melody  before  the  snow  fell,  and 

"  The  winter  gently  closed  the  lake's  blue  eye, 
And  laid  its  shroud  above  dead  summer's  breast — " 

a  maiden,  the  sweetest,  the  fairest,  Enoch 
thought,  of  all  the  singers  in  the  garden  of 
maidens ;  a  maiden,  whose  soul  was  as  pure 
as  her  eyes  were  blue. — so  pure,  that  Enoch, 
unlettered  Enoch,  whose  hands  were  la 
marked,  who  had  never  read  a  line  of  poetry 
beyond  the  Bible  verses  in  his  life,  c 
sr,  "  My  little  Snow-flake" — whispered  the 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  7 

name  so  softly,  Faith's  ear  alone  had  heard 
it.  "  It  belongs  all  to  you,  Enoch,"  the 
young  girl  would  say,  with  a  happy  smile. 

This  sense  of  ownership,  of  individualit}' 
does  it  not  make  the  difference  between  a 
"  pet  name,"  and  the  long  catalogue  of  en 
dearing  terms,    used   by   fathers,    mothers, 
brothers,  sisters,  and  friends  alike  ?          * 

The  names  which  end  so  often  with  the 
ie  termination  that  the  two  letters  seem  to 
have  caught  a  look  of  the  fond  affection 
which  makes  them  "  nicknames,"  very  sweet 
oftentimes,  very  precious  are  these  names, 
which  now  and  then  cling  to  us  long  after 
childhood  has  passed.  But,  they  are  not 
the  "  pet  name,"  the  name  so  tender,  so 
sacred — the  name  spoken  in  whispered  ac 
cent — the  pet  name  of  our  life.  Ah  no ! 
not  many  can  utter  it.  Can  more  than 
one? 

In  this  life  of  symbols,  how  the  human 
touches  the  divine — the  seen,  the  unseen — • 
the  present,  the  future  !  How  we  reach  for 
ward,  and  strive  to  express  our  earthly  love 


g  UPLAXDS  AXD  LOU' LAX  DS. 

after  the  pattern  of  the  Heavenly,  tin    I  i 
cst,  whose  promise  to  him  who  ovcrcometh 
is,  the  "new  name,  which  no  man  kn<>\\ 

ng  he  who  receiveth  it,"  and  the  Lord 
who  gives  it! 

We  have  wandered  from  the  little  house 
building  by  the  lake,  where  the  sound  of 
Enoch's    hammer   was    heard    until    late    in 
September — so  late,  that  the  summer  <;; 
of  maple  and  oak  w<  'icd  with  golden 

and  crimson  glory  before  the  cott; 
completed,   the    last    nail    driven,    the    last 
touch  given,  and,  standing   in   the 
*ight  of  the  ending  day,  Enoch  gazed  on 
his  work  accorjplished. 

"  I  never  can  forget  this  time,"  he  said  t<j 
himself,  as  he  turned  for  one  more  look  at 
the  little  cottage,  which,  on  the  morrow,  he 
was  to  enter  with  another;  strong  man 
though  he  was,  tears  filled  his  eyes,  an .'. 
voice  had  a  strange,  new  tender  note  in  it, 
as  softly  he  added,  "  God  help  me  to  be 
worthy  of  her,  and  to  make  her  happv." 
And  then,  he  folded  his  arms  over  the  little 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  g 

gate,  while  he  lived  it  over — the  idyl  of  his 
iife — his  love  for  Faith. 

His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  little  child 
with  sunny  face,  and  trusting  nand-clasp, 
that  had  shook  her  curly  head,  refusing  tc 
go  or  come  from  the  red  school-house,  with 
any  one  "  but  Enoch." 

He  remembered  how  those  days  were 
wont  to  seem  to  him  gladsome  as  the  music 
of  the  little  brook,  which  played  over  its 
pebbly  bed  up  among  the  hills ;  and  then  he 
thought  of  other  days  —  days  when  the 
music  in  his  heart  was  sweet  as  the  cool 
rippling  sound  of  water  in  the  noontime 
heat.  Later  days  he  thought  of,  too — days 
when  the  early  spring  blossoms  were  bud 
ding  in  the  woods,  and,  like  a  golden  sun 
beam,  breaking  in  upon  silvery  moonlight, 
one  day  shone  out  brighter,  fairer  than  any 
other — the  time,  when  by  the  brook  side 
they  stood  together,  when  she  held  in  her 
hand  the  May  blossoms  he  had  gathered, 
when,  for  a  minute,  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  let  them  float  (the  May  blossoms) 


IO 


on  the  rippling  waves  of  the  brook  into  the 
lake.     But  something,  no  n  11  what, 

made  the  brook  sing  a  louder,  gladder  s 
that  day  to  Enoch,  than  ever  before;  and, 
the  something — it  was  not  the  May   i 
soms  floating  on    the    dancing    waves,   for. 
Faith,  she  did  not  cast  the  little  things  into 
the  singing  waters  which,  since  then,  had 
sparkled  in  smiles  to  Enoch,  whether  lit  by 
sun  or  moonbeam  ra 

The  far-off  note  of  a  whip-poor-will,  the 
sleepless  bird,  that  tarries  to  sing  while  its 
mates  rest,  roused  Enoch,  and  quickly  he 
brushed  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  hall 
ed,  just   as   though    the  signs  of  his   true 
manliness  were  marks  of  weakness.     Only 
one  more  hasty  look  he  gave  toward  the 
cottage,  ere  lit*  went  whistling  up  the  i 
wondering  why  the  whip-poor-will's   ^ 
(for  the  bird  had  flown   near)  sounded    so 
much  louder  and  sweeter  that  night  than  it 
vont  to  do. 

Faith's  home  was  not  faraway;  but  the 
m  >rning   sun    had    not    long    flushed    the 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  \  \ 

eastern  sky  with  rosy  light,  when  Enoch 
started  for  the  little  brown  house  up  among 
the  hills;  and,  before  noontime  came,  hand 
in  hand,  Enoch  and  Faith  had  entered  the 
new  home  and  begun  the  new  life. 

Like  children  they  wandered  about  that 
day,  Faith,  with  deft  touch,  giving  some 
thing  of  grace  and  beauty  to  the  clumsy 
furniture  which  Enoch  had  bought,  with 
such  satisfaction,  in  the  neighboring  town; 
and  then  came  the  preparing  for  the  first 
meal — such  a  happy  hour  of  preparation! 
when  Enoch  kindled  the  wood  fire,  which 
seemed  to  catch  the  spirit  of  their  young 
life,  it  blazed  and  sparkled  so — the  cheery 
flame. 

Meanwhile,  Faith  had  unfolded  the  home- 
-pun  cloth  of  snowy  whiteness,  and  spread 
tne  table,  quite  emptying  the  cupboard 
shelves  of  their  array  of  plates,  in  her  eager 
ness  to  have  a  table  laden  for  Enoch ;  then, 
together  they  opened  the  basket  of  dainties 
which  her  aunt  had  provided,  and  which 
Faith's  own  fingers  had  helped  to  fill.  Never 


12  UP!  DS. 

was  butter  so  g  bread   s  and 

white,  chickens  so  daintily  browneci 
thought;  nor  tea  so  fragrant  as  that  which 
Faith  poured  from  the  shining  tea-pot  into 
his  cup,  saying, 

"  See,  the  milk  which  auntie  sent  is 
cream  !" 

They  forgot  they  were  working  people, 
in  a  work-day  world,  so  light-hearted  the 
young  things  were. 

Just  before  the  sun  set,  they  stole,  hand  in 
hand  again,  through  the  little  gate,  going 
down  to  the  lake-side,  and  on  beyond,  up 
to  the  brook,  for,  "  I  want  to  hear  it  sing 
to-day,"  Faith  said. 

Between  the  daylight  and  the  dark,  they 
came  "home,"  Faith's  hands  laden  with 
golden  rod  and  purple  asters,  while  Enoch 
carried  branches  of  the  brilliant  frost-k: 
maple  leaves,  which  he  had  broken  to  please 
Faith,  who  loved  so  much  the  bright  beau- 
tiful  colors. 

"  They  seem  like  my  life,  Enoch,  all 
brightness,"  she  whispered. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  13 

And  Enoch,  he  smiled  in  reply. 

Half  an  hour  later,  they  lit  the  lamp  ;  far 
off  its  beams  shone,  for  it  twinkled  like  a 
little  star,  the  light  of  that  new  home. 

Faith's  aunt,  standing  in  the  doorway  of 
the  brown  house  up  among  the  hills  saw  it, 
and  said. 

"  Look !    the  children    have   lit  a  light." 

Farmer  Jones'  wife,  who  lived  just  across 
the  lake,  saw  it  too,  and,  as  she  bent  to  stir 
the  fire,  told  her  husband  of  it,  saying, 
"  The  glimmer  of  light,  over  where  Enoch 
Foster  has  pitched  his  tent,  shines  like  a 
fire-fly  to-night." 

So  the  first  day  of  their  life  together  end 
ed,  but  it  was  onfy  the  prelude  to  many 
glad  days. 

The  sunshine  that  year  was  bright  and 
clear  all  October ;  indeed  November  was  far 
gone  before  the  sunshine  was  mellowed  into 
the  tender  misty  light  of  the  Indian-summer 
time  ;  but  when  it  gave  place,  as  it  did 
at  last,  to  cold  winter  winds,  and  drifting 
snow  fell,  shutting  Enoch  and  Faith  awa\ 


14  'DS- 

from  the  outside  world,  just  as  happy  were 
they. 

"  Who  do  1  want  but  you,  Enoch  ?"  Faith 
would  ask,  she  was  so  utterly  unlearned  in 
modern  love  and  life,  this  young  girl  reared 
among  the  hills. 

But,  we  must  not  lengthen  these  intro 
ductory  pages;  enough,  that  to  Enoch  and 
Faith,  the  sunshine  in  their  hearts 
while  winter  melted  into  spring;  spring 
glided  into  summer,  and  summer  on  to 
autumn  again. 

"Just  a  year,  little  Snow-flake,  since  we 
came  to. our  home,"  whispered  Enoch  to 
Faith,  one  cloudless  mornin 

"Such  a  happy,  hap'py  year!"  washer 
whispered  reply. 

"  I  think  1   will  stay  with  you  all  day," 
Enoch  continued ;  so  he  stayed,  and  it  was 
thus  he  came    to   be   the   first   listener  to 
tho    music   which,   next    to    Faith's  voice, 
he    loved    better    than    any    other    m 
he  ever  heard,  for  at  noontime  that 
there  came  a  little  stranger  into   Enoch's 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  5 

nome  ;  a  little  soul,  a  new  voice  to  make 
melody. 

"  Find  him  a  name,"  Faith  murmured, 
just  as  the  twilight  was  stealing  with  soft 
shadows  into  the  little  room. 

"  Find  him  a  name,"  and  she  looked  to 
ward  the  old  Bible,  which  had  been  her 
mother's;  and  Enoch,  he  brought  the  book, 
holding  it  in  his  strong  hand,  while  Faith 
with  feeble  touch  turned  the  leaves,  and 
rested  her  finger  on  a  verse  which  read, 
"  Paul,  a  servant  of  Jesus  Christ." 

So  they  gave  him  his  name — Paul. 

And  now  you  know  when  and  where  his 
life  began,  the  life  of  Paul  Foster,  of  whom 
our  story  will  tell ;  and,  remember,  it  is  not  a 
tale  of  the  imagination  only,  but  the  history 
of  a  life — a  life,  which  helps  to  reveal  the 
struggles,  the  aspirations,  of  other  lives — 
lives,  which  we  so  often  touch,  and  yet  pass 
by. 


II. 


WHAT  are  pictures  but  efforts  to 
transfer  to  canvas  the  wondrous 
beauty  *f  sky  and  land,  ocean  waves  and 
mountain  heights,  clouds  and  sunshine, 
flowing  livers  and  flowcrv  plains,  or,  per 
chance,  the  deeper  beauty  (because  the 
spiritual)  of  the  life  of  the  affections. 

Why  do  we  stand,  as  thousands  h 
stood,  with  hearts  awed  into  silence,  h 
bowed  in  reverence  before  the  representa 
tions  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and  Infant  Child, 
the  subject  which  makes  so  large  a  portion 
of  the  contents  of  picture  galleries  and 
church  adornment?  Why,  but  because  they 
touch  us  with  the  electric  touch  of  sym 
pathy,  appealing  as  they  do,  in  the  most 
familiar  forms,  to  th\.  memory  and  affec 
tions;  for,  however  hardened  and  >in 


UPLANDS  AND  LO IV LANDS.  \j 

marred  the  heart  of  man  may  be,  somewhere 
there  is  hidden  a  tender  place,  which  re 
sponds  to  thoughts  of  a  mother  thoughts 
of  childhood  and  innocence,  home  and 
love. 

True  were  the  words  the  English  poet 
sang — the  poet,  not  over  much  given  to 
tenderness,  "  To  the  man  who  has  had  a 
mother,  all  women  are  sacred  for  her 
sake." 

Holy-family  groups,"  (a  well-chosen, 
beautiml  title  it  is,  of  a  beautiful  subject,)  we 
ire  wont  to  call  tnc^e  pictures,  which  are 
so  multiplied  in  variety,  and  yet  <nl  have 
the  same  central  light. 

Enoch  Foster  had  never  seen  a  painting 
)f  the  Madonna  and  Child  ;  indeed,  he  had 
>ut  a  dim  knowledge  of  when  or  where 
ived  and  died  Rap.iael,  Fra  Angelico,  and 
die  cluster  of  names  which  make  the  old- 
time  artist  band  shine  like  jewels  in  Italy's 
crown   of  kingship  in  the  kingdom  of  art 
A  taint,  rnisty  knowledge  of  long   names, 
stumbled  over  occasionally,  during  the  one 
2* 


i8  UPi. 

or  t\vo  winters'  schooling  which  lie  had 

in  the  neighboring  town  of  M ,  such  a 

brief  schooling  time  that  mere  peep-holes 
into  other  lands  and   peoples  had   it  gi\en 
him  ;   and   Faith   knew  scarce  more.     The 
Bible  was   the   only   wide-opened   window 
they  had,  through  which   to  look  on  tr 
urcs  of  poetry,  or  word-pictures,  which  in 
their   vividness    rival   the  glowing  car. 
And  yet,  the  living  picture  of  Faith,  hold 
ing   in    loving   tenderness   the   baby    Paul, 
pillowing  his  little  head  on  her  bosom, 
ling  his  tiny   hand    into  her  own,   was  to 
Enoch  a   picture    as  true,  as  beautifu' 
any  ever  caught  and  held  by  artist's  b: 
— a  picture,  which  wakened  holy  thou, 
wnd     aspirations,     that     other     word     for 
prayer. 

And  Faith,  sitting  hour  alter  nour,  n 
with    spinning-wheel,   giving   one   look   to 
distaff,  the  next,  a  longer  look,  toward  the 
'ittle   cradle    where   baby    slept,   and   the  i 
oack  a^ain  to  thread  and  distaft,  was  w 
ing   all   tin-   time  in   her  hr  :   as 


UP  LA  .VDS  AND  LO  WLA  KDS.  \  g 

sweet,  as  true,  as  any  poet  ever  sang, 
though  the  words  of  the  lullaby  she  softly 
hummed,  were  only  very  simple  words. 
So  it  is,  the  dear  All-Father  never  shuts 
any  of  His  children,  however  humble  their 
homes  may  be,  away  from  pictures  and 
from  poems,  but  scatters  them  so  freely, 
they  are  everywhere,  like  the  flowers  which 
spring  up  in  early  summer,  till  "  you 
scarce  can  see  the  grass  for  flowers." 

Nevertheless,  we  must  seek  with  wide- 
open  eyes  if  we  would  find  them  —  the 
flowers,  the  pictures,  and  the  poems. 

Guarded  by  the  watchful  love  of  father 
and  mother,  Paul's  early  childhood,  was 
beautiful  as  a  pleasant  dream. 

They  thought  him  so  wonderful  those 
first  days ;  every  smile  that  flitted  across 
the  baby  face,  Faith  would  treasure  in  her 
memory  to  tell  Enoch,  when  at  nightfall  he 
came  home. 

"  What  can  he  be  thinking  about,  Enoch  ? 
she  would  ask.  "  In  his  sleep  he  smiles," 

But  Enoch  could  not  tell ;  for,     • 


20  UP  LA  .)r£>S  A\D  f.Oll  LA  .YDS. 

'  Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks? 
Who  can  follow  the  Kossamer  links 
By  which  the  mamk 

Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
....     into  the  light  of  <:.. 

As  the  months  numbered  years,  more  and 
more  wonderful  the  unfolding  of  the  child's 
life  seemed.  It  was  a  summer  day  when  he, 
uttered  the  first  word,  so  quickly  followed 
by  others,  that  to  Faith,  her  baby's  lan 
guage  seemed  complete,  when  almost  on 
one's  fingers  could  his  list  of  words  be 
counted. 

During  those  early  years,  Paul's  com 
panions  were  his  father  and  mother;  his 
playthings,  treasures  of  acorn-cups,  shining 
stones  found  by  the  lake,  flowers  from  the 
meadows,  and  mosses  from  the  woods. 

Like  a  child  herself,  Faith  appeared, 
while  playing  with  little  Paul ;  sometimes 
it  was  difficult  to  tell  which  laugh  were  the 
gladder,  mother's  or  child's,  when  in  tin: 
ong  afternoons  of  the  summer  time,  she 
would  leave  her  spinning-wheel  idle,  and 
wander  about  with  him  in  the  sunshine ,  or, 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  2l 

a  shady  place  they  would  find  on  the  beach, 
where  they  could  make  gardens  for  Enoch 
to  see. 

Those  fairy-like,  miniature  gardens  in  the 
smooth  sands,  which  they  walled  round 
with  shining  stones  and  white  pebbles,  were 
Paul's  great  delight.  For  trees,  they  found 
plume-tufted  mosses ;  flowers  they  never 
lacked.  They  found,  too,  curious  fungi,  of 
brilliantly  dyed  yellow,  or  sober  brown  ; 
lichens,  of  varied  hue  and  grotesque  outline, 
and  dainty  moss-cups,  that  opened  like 
little  bells,  little  cups,  where  dew-drops 
would  linger  long  past  morning ;  indeed, 
there  were  no  end  to  the  treasures  Faith 
and  Paul  found. 

The  boy  inherited  his  mother's  love  for 
color ;  while  still  a  baby,  he  would  clap  his 
tiny  hands  with  delight,  when  Enoch  brought 
home  a  cluster  of  the  scarlet  cardinal  blos 
soms,  or  branch  of  delicate  pink  azalia.  As 
he  grew  older,  a  strange  instinctive  appre 
ciation,  or  sympathy,  he  seemed  to  have, 
too,  with  the  mystical  meanings  of  color; 


22  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

for  the  violets,  which  so  thickly  starred  the 
Dasture  meadows  in  spring  and  early  sum 
mer,  always  made  him  quiet  and  gentle,  as 
though  the  violet  hue  of  the  modest  little 
flower  had  been  caught  from  the  Beyond, 
caught  even  from  the  stone  precious  amid 
the  foundation  stones  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
— the  stone,  whose  ray  is  violet — the  ame 
thyst;  and  later,  when  the  child  wandered 
through  the  same  meadows — gemmed  no 
longer  with  violets,  but  gay  with  buttrr- 
cups,  dandelions,  and  daisies — his  mood  was 
joyous  and  frolicsome.  Faith  \s  <!,  in 

her  quiet  way,  why  it  was  that  the  flowers 
so  differently  affected  Paul ;  but,  for  all  her 
wonderment,  she  found  no  explanation. 

Every  year  new  pleasures  opened.  A 
great  discovery  the  boy  made  one  day, 
which  was,  that  on  the  smooth,  flat,  stones 
he  found  on  the  beach,  he  could,  with 
pointed  bits  of  stone,  make  pictures  of  trees 
and  flowers.  Patiently  he  worked  for  days, 
striving  to  make  crooked  lines  look  like 
a  tree,  and  when  partially  successful,  his 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS  23 

joy  was  unbounded  ;  but,  brighter  and  ful 
ler  of  happiness  than  almost  any  day  of  his 
childhood,  ever  stood  out  clearly  defined  in 
his  memory,  the  hour  when  his  little  hands 
pressed,  from  a  cluster  of  berries,  crimson 
drops — drops  which  did  not  lose  their  color 
when,  with  his  mother's  help,  he  laid  them 
on  to  his  drawing  of  a  tree,  in  tiny  red 
specks,  exclaiming,  "  'Cause  they  looks  like 
apples,  mother."  And  father  and  mother 
were  hardly  less  delighted  than  Paul  him 
self,  with  that  first  picture — the  crooked 
tree,  with  red  specks  for  apples. 

In  the  corner  of  the  room  behind  his 
mother's  spinning-wheel,  the  child  kept  his 
treasures — the  little  hoard  of  smooth  slate 
stones,  sharp  bits,  and  curious  shaped  leaves, 
which  he  saved  to  copy  when  winter  came. 
Pointing  toward  the  corner,  he  would  tell 
the  few  neighbors  who  came  now  and  then 
for  a  chat  with  ,  Faith  : 

"  Behind  there  I  make  my  pictures." 
But  his  mother  was  wont  to  lay  her  hand 
on  the  boy's  curly  head,  while  she  softly  said 


24  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

"  I  think  it  is  in  here  the  child  makes 
them." 

Well,  they  were  both  right. 

The  cottage  was  so  far  from  the  red 
school-house,  that  Enoch  yielded  to  Faith's 
desire,  and  consented  that  the  mysteries 
and  difficulties  of  the  little  Primer  shouid 
be  conquered  at  home.  So,  Paul's  first  les 
sons  were  learned  close  by  his  mother's 
side. 

There  were  other  lessons  learned,  too— 
harder  lessons  than  the  Primer  taught; 
for  temptation  found  its  way  even  into 
Enoch  and  Faith's  humble  home.  And  the 
first  dark  shadow  that  fell  on  Paul's  life  was 
from  sin.  Yet,  that  shadow  became  a  step 
ping-stone,  from  which  the  boy  of  six  sum 
mers  looked  off  into  the  land  where  no 
shadows  lurk ;  for,  he  was  by  his  mother's 
side  then,  and  gently,  tenderly,  she  led  the 
little  child  to  the  Saviour,  who  understands 
the  neart  of  a  child  better  even  than  a 
mother. 

It  was  by  asking  Christ  to  make  him  "a 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  2$ 

good  boy,"  that  Paul  was  lifted  out  of 
temptation,  just  as  we,  if  we  ask  Him,  vviF 
be  lifted  above  the  sins,  the  misdoings,  of 
our  later  years,  till  they  become  "  stepping 
stones "  —  look-off  places  from  which  we 
catch  glimpses  of  the  sinless  land,  shining 
brighter  from  their  very  contrast  to  our 
darkness. 

Before  Paul  had  known  the  snows  of 
seven  winters,  the  flowers  of  seven  sum 
mers,  the  little  Primer  had  been  read  and 
re-read,  and  of  a  Sabbath  afternoon,  sitting 
on  Enoch's  knee,  with  one  little  dimpled 
hand  nestled  into  Faith's,  the  other  pointing 
to  the  words  in  the  old  Bible,  father,  mother 
and  child  turned  the  pages  together;  little 
Paul  spelling  out  letter  by  letter  the  words 
new  to  him,  his  face  all  aglow  when  he 
came  to  one  too  familiar  to  spell.  It  was 
thus  they  came  to  read  on  the  Sabbath 
afternoons,  oftenest,  from  John's  Epistle, 
for, 

"  It  makes   Paul  so  happy"   the  mother 
would  say,  "  to  find  the  words  he  knows 
3 


26  UPL.  I  ,V/>5  ,-/  .YD  LOU  'I  A  \'D  S. 

and  Love  he  always  calls  by  its  ri_rht  name  ' 
— Love,  the  word  which  shines  through 
those  chapters,  like  shells  upon  the  ocean 
shore,  which  the  tide  has  drifted  up  into 
sunlit  places. 

"  He  never  will  forget  that  word — love," 
Faith  was  wont  to  whisper,  as,  the  rca 
ended,  the  child  carried  the  Bible  back  to 
its  place  upon  the  little  stand ;  and  he  m 
did. 


ra. 

THE  years  that  had  come  laJened  with 
strength  for  Paul,  which  had  flushed 
his  cheeks  with  the  ruddy  color  of  health, 
the  years  which  had  brought  thoughts 
into  the  child's  heart,  had  taken  something 
away  from  his  mother,  What  was  it?  Not 
the  sweet  smile  and  gentle  voice — not  the 
loving  welcome  which  ever  greeted  Enoch, 
when,  tired  from  work,  at  evening  he  came 
home — not  the  warm  sympathy  ever  ready 
for  Paul ;  these  had  not  grown  less,  but, 
rather  more.  The  change  was  something 
which  had  come  very  quietly  and  gradually 
— so  gradually,  all  the  note  Paul  took  of  it 
was,  that  his  mother  no  longer  went  with 
him  to  the  woods  or  lake-shore,  but  sent 
him  to  play  alone — that  she  no  longer  sat 
through  the  morning  hours,  singing  by  the 


28  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

spinning-wheel  as  had  been  her  wont ,  but, 
while  he  puzzled  over  the  line  of  figures  on 
the  slate  his  father  had  brought  from  the  vil 
lage  store,  or  strove  to  master  the  long  col 
umn  in  the  spelling-book,  she  would  lean 
her  head  wearily  back  on  the  cushioned 
rocking-chair  —  and  sometimes  her  eyes 
would  be  closed. 

This  was  all  Paul,  the  child,  noticed. 
But  Enoch,  who  ever  watched  Faith  with 
the  quick  discernment  of  love,  he  saw  the 
rosy  flush  in  her  cheek  fade  into  faint  pink 
— and,  the  pink,  it  too  faded  away  at  1 
he  saw  the  hands  of  his  wife  grow  thinner 
and  whiter,  day  by  day,  (the  hands  always 
so  small,  spite  their  familiarity  with  house 
hold  tasks,)  and  yet,  Faith  ever  smiled  when 
he  asked  her — 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  my  little 
Snow-flake  ?" 
—smiled  and  replied : 

"  I    will    be    stronger   when    the   spring 
comes." 

But     spring     came  —  the     noneysucklcs 


UPLANDS  ANL  LOWLANDS.  29 

round  the  porch  were  laden  with  flovvers; 
the  robins  and  the  blue-birds  chirped  to 
one  another  all  day  long,  while  the  May 
blossoms  were  "  fragrant,  filling  the  air  with 

strange  and  wonderful  sweetness,"  and 
the  flower  "  children,  lost  in  the  woods,  and 
covered  with  leaves  in  their  slumber,"  were 
waking  up  in  their  nooks  in  the  maple 
grove,  were  shining  like  stars  in  the  pine 
forest,  while  the  meadows  were  gemmed 
with  anemones  and  violets — still  Faith,  she 
was  not  stronger,  and  Enoch  could  not 
silence  the  foreboding  dread  whispering  in 
his  heart,  that  Faith — Faith,  his  young  wife, 
was  slipping  with  every  passing  day  away 
from  him. 

So  it  happened,  one  morning,  instead  oi 
going  to  the  mill,  he  followed  the  path 
leading  to  the  village,  hardly  defining  to 
himself  what  his  errand  was,  he  so  shrank 
from  acknowledging  it  —  even  to  his  own 
heart. 

"  What  brings  Enoch  Foster  to  town  this 
time  of  day  ?"  old  widow  Brown  queried, 
3* 


jO  UPLANDS  AND ' .  \'DS. 

as  she  saw  him  passing;  "he  hain't  been  to 
the  post  office,  nor  to  the  store — deary  me, 
if  he  ain't  turning  in  to  Doctor  Miller's 
gate." 

Yes,  Enoch  had  opened  the  gate,  and 
standing  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door   which   led  into  the    Doctor's  dingy 
little  office. 

He  did  not  open  the  door  for  a  moment, 
but  lingered  to  read  over  once  or  t 
the  brief  sign,  "  Doctor  Peter  Miller."  Then 
he  smiled,  for  his  thoughts  turned  to  little 
Paul,  and  how  pleased  he  would  be  with  the 
bright  yellow  and  red  letters;  and  then  his 
mind  cante  back  to  why  he  stood  there. 

A  cheery  voice  called, 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Foster, "  and  Enoch  en 
tered. 

"  I  hope  no  one  is  sick  up  your  way,"  the 
Doctor  asked. 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  Enoch.   "  Not  exactly 
sick;  but,   Faith,  my  wife,  she  is  growing 
kind  of  thin,  and  pale — feeling  sort  of  t 
all  the  time,  and  I  thought  if  you  were  j 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  31 

ing  it  might  be  as  well  for  you  to  give  us  a 
call." 

Then  Er.och  began  hastily  to  talk  of  other 
things  ;  the  crops,  the  mill,  the  new  families 

that  had  moved  to  W ;  but  all  the  time 

the  dull  pain  was  aching,  throbbing  in  his 
heart;  for  it  had  made  his  anxieties  for 
Faith  so  fearfully  real — this  coming  to  the 
Doctor — this  telling  some  one  else  that  she 
was  not  well — in  a  moment,  it  seemed  to 
have  crushed  all  hope,  that  perhaps  she 
soon  would  be  better,  out  of  his  heart, 
making  his  fears  dread  realities. 

Doctor  Miller  was  an  old  man.  For 
thirty  years  or  more  he  had  been  going  and 
coming  among  the  homes  scattered  the 
country-side  over. 

"A  shrewd  far-seeing  old  man;  close  to 
drive  a  bargain,  but  mighty  kind  of  heart 
withal,"  the  village  people  said. 

Instantly  he  understood  Enoch's  anxiety, 
and  the  effort  he  made  to  conceal  it.  So, 
with  the  innate  delicacy  which  is  hidden 
sometimes  behind  the  roughest  exterior 


32  UPLANDS  A  \'DS. 

the  old   man   made  no  further  allusion    to 
\vhy  Knoch  had  come,  beyond  the  briet  re- 
sponse,  "  I   will  see  to  it,"  which  he  nuul 
Enoch  turned  back  before  closing  the  door 
to  say, 

••  You  may  as  well  come  round  to-day, 
Doctor." 

A    minute     later,    Enoch    was     walk 
through  the  sunshine  once  more ;  but,  the 
sunshine    had    all    faded  out   of  his   h 
He  heard  the   birds  singing  jubilant  s< 
as  he  passed  from  the  village  into  the  woods ; 
but,  to  him,  the  music  had  died  out  of  their 
songs. 

Meanwhile,    Faith,  with    little  Paul's  as 
sistance,   had    finished   the   small   share  of 
morning  work  which    Enoch    had    left  un 
done — such  a  small  share,  that  it  often  made 
her  eyes  fill  with  tears — the  thoughtful 
derness  with  which  her  husband  anticip 
her  everv  want. 

"  Push  my  chair  into  the  doorway,  Paul, 
dear,"  she  said,  "  where  I  can  watch-  you 
while  you  play." 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


33 


She  was  sitting  there,  with  the  child's 
toys  scattered  about  the  step,  when  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels  broke  the 
stillness  like  a  discordant  note.  Away  ra» 
Paul  down  the  narrow  walk  to  see  who  was 
coming.  He  was  swinging  on  the  gate 
when  Doctor  Miller  came  in  sight.  The 
boy  watched  his  approach  with  no  interest 
except  the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing  some 
one  pass,  till  he  heard  the  Doctor  call 
"  Whoa  !"  to  his  horse,  and  saw  him  proceed 
to  alight  from  his  gig,  and  fasten  the  long 
reins  in  a  firm  knot  round  the  old  maple 
tree.  What  could  it  mean?  Half  fright 
ened,  half  curious,  Paul  ran  eagerly  to  tell 
his  mother ;  shouting  even  before  he  reached 
her,  "  Mother,  mother,  a  strange  man  is 
coming  here !"  and  before  Faith  could  re 
ply,  Doctor  Miller  was  by  her  side. 

The  keen  glance  of  a  man  so  well  used  as 
he,  to  study  faces,  detected  in  a  moment 
the  truth  Enoch  had  striven  not  to  perceive. 
He  was  startled  to  find  Faith  was  already 
talking  too  close  to  the  boundary  line 


34 


UP  LA 


which  divides  earth   from   1,  :or   any 

skill  of  his  to  dispel  the  shadows  which  were 
gathering  around  Enoch  Foster's  home. 

Doctor  Miller  was  not  a  weak  man.     Ho 
was  not  wont  to  shrink  from  speaking  the 
truth.      Many    and    many  were    the    times 
when  unflinchingly  he  said,  "  I  cannot  help 
you — medicine  will  do  no  g< 
it  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  say  t: 
words  to  Faith.     Perhaps  it  was  something 
in  the  sweet  face,  in  the  gentle  voice  ;  or 
perchance,  something   in  the   sight  of  the 
child's    playthings,     scattered     about     his 
mother's  feet,  or  in  the  memory  of  Enoch, 
as  he  stood  before   him,  savin: 
sick   exactly,   but    Faith,    my    wife,   she   is 
growing  kind  of  thin  and  pale — feeling  sort 
of  tired  all  the  time."     Whatever  the  c.: 
the  old  man  was  long  silent;  but  Faith  : 
the  words  he  did  not  utter,  in  U  e  troubled 
look  which  came  over  his  face.     Gently  she 
said, 

"Paul,   go   t}   the   meadow   and    gather 
flowers."  • 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


35 


Reluctantly  the  boy  obeyed  ;  for  he  did 
net  like  to  leave  his  mother  alone  with  a 
straager.  As  Paul  w^nt,  the  old  man  and 
the  young  woman  watched  the  little  figure 
till  quite  out  of  sight,  and  then  it  was  Faith 
who  broke  the  silence,  saying,  very  softly  : 

"  You  need  not  fear  to  tell  me,  Doctor. 
I  know  it.  Every  day  I  am  growing 
weaker.  Every  day  it  comes  nearer  the 
time  when  I  must  leave  them." 

It  was  still  again,  till  presently  a  few 
more  words  she  said  —  words  in  a  very 
low  voice,  to  which  the  Doctor  made  no 
reply  beyond  a  whispered,  "  God  bless  you, 
child."  And  then  he  passed  down  the  nar 
row  walk,  through  the  gate — brushing  away 
hastily  the  mist  which  had  gathered  before 
his  eyes,  for  it  made  the  bright  morning 
light  seem  dim  to  the  old  man ;  and,  on  his 
coat  sleeve  —  his  rough  home-spun  coat — 
there  glistened  something  which  shone  like 
a  jewel.  Yet,  it  was  cmly  a  tear. 


IV. 

SO,  Faith  was  left  alon:,  face  to  face  witn 
the  truth,     How  could  she  meet  it? 
How  could  she  think  of  go  in  c;  away   ; 

ch — from   little   Paul?     How  could  slu 
leave    them    when    they    needed     her    so 
Surely  God — the  God  who  had  -iven  them 
to  her — surely,  surely   He    would    let   her 
stay.     And  then,  all  alone,  she  met  it — the 
verse,  "  Not  my  will,  but  thine  be  done.' 
Met  it,  and  learned  to  say  it  alone  (as  c\ 
one  that  calls  Him  my  Father  must),  alone 
with  Christ. 

\Vlun  Paul  came,  an  hour  later,  Faith 
greeted  the  child  with  a  smile,  as  he  called, 
"See,  mother,  I  have  brought  you  ever 
so  many  flowers!"  And  she  kissed  him. 
Never  in  all  his  life  long  did  Paul  forget 
that  smile  and  kiss. 

While  the  sun  was  still   high  above  the 
(36) 


UP  LA  :TDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


37 


horizon,  Enoch  left  his  work  and  turned 
homeward,  no  longer  able  to  combat  with 
the  restless  longing  to  know  whether  Doctor 
Miller  had  been.  When  he  reached  the 
cottage  Faith  was  sitting  where  she  had 
sat  in  the  morning  ;  but  then,  the  sunshine 
had  been  about  her,  and  now  shadows  were 
plentiful  in  the  valley — only  the  hill-tops 
were  glory-touched. 

By  and  by,  little  Paul  was  sent  for  the 
second  time  that  day,  to  play  by  himself. 
"  Go  swing  on  the  garden  gate,"  his  father 
said — and  they  were  left  alone,  Faith  and 
Enoch,  sitting  in  their  humble  door-way — 
her  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  her  hand, 
the  little  thin  white  hand,  held  in  the  firm 
clasp  of  his  strong  hand  —  and,  while  the 
twilight  shadows  deepened  about  them, — 
the  tender,  pitiful  twilight — she  whispered 
to  him — that  she  must  go — softly  adding  : 
"  It  will  not  be  for  long  Enoch,  God  will 
send  for  you  and  Paul  to  come  soon."  And 
Enoch,  he  did  not  speak — but,  he  lifted  her 
in  his  arms — he  held  her  close — his  little 
4 


V 

j8  UPLANDS  AND  LOH'LAXDS. 

\ \-flake — as  thought  he  could,  keep  hei 
from  fading — slipping  a\ 

It  had  grown  dark  in  the  room  ;  dark  and 
cold. 

Paul  returning  from  his  play  lingered  on 
the  door-step;  it  was  all  so  still,  it  frighten 
ed  him,  and  suddenly  he  called  aloud — 

"  Father   where   are    you,    I   cannot   see 

you?" 

A  minute  afterwards,  Enoch  lit  a  light, 
stirred  the  dying  embers  of  the  smoulder 
ing  fire  into  a  bright  blaze,  and  Paul  was 
no  longer  afraid. 

Then  father  and  child  prepared  the  simple 
evening  meal — the  meal  untouched  save  by 
the  boy. 

Thus  it  is  wont  to  be  ;  amid  the  hours  of 
deepest  heart-anguish,  some  voice  calls  us 
back  into  the  daily  routine  of  life.  Sonic 
light  must  be  lit — some  fire  stirred.  Well 
it  is  better  so. 

Only  one  verse  Enoch  read  that  night 
from  the  old  Bible,  for  something  choked 
his  utterance,  blinded  his  eyes ;  the  verse 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  39 

was,  "  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 
so  the  Lord  pitieth  them  that  fear  him.' 
And  the  prayer  which  followed,  scarce  more 
than  a  sentence  was  it — just  the  cry,  "  Thy 
will  be  done ;  Lord  help  us  to  say  it,  for 
Christ's  sake,  Amen."  And  then,  not  wait 
ing  to  close  the  open  Bible,  he  passed 
through  the  cottage-door,  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 

Paul's  childish  heart  was  full  of  wonder 
ment,  and  half  afraid  too,  but  the  soothing, 
loving  words  of  his  mother  soon  comforted 
him,  and  tired  from  a  day  of  such  strange 
excitement,  hardly  did  the  little  head  touch 
the  pillow,  before  the  child  slept. 

It  was  late  when  Enoch  returned,  but 
Faith  was  waiting  for  him,  and  with  the 
gentle  grace  of  love,  with  which  a  woman 
can  interpret  the  heart  of  him  she  trusts, 
she  did  not  speak  to  him  of  where  he  had 
been,  of  what  he  had  suffered  out  in  the 
dark,  she  only  said, 

"  Enoch  dear,"  did  you  hear  Paul's  words 
when  he  stood  on  the  door-step,  when  he 


4O  OPl  Z>5. 

called,  '  Father,  where  are  you,  I  cannot  see 
vou?'  Do  you  remember?  You  lit  the 
light  Our  little  child  calling  out  to  his 
earth  y  father,  sure  the  light  would  be  lit, 
has  touched  my  heart  so,  —  and,"  Faith's 
voice  grew  lower, — "  can  we  not  trust  our 
Heavenly  Father,  just  as  little  Paul  trusts 
you  ?" 

"  Snow-flake — my  little  Snow-flake —  '  it 
was  all  the  reply  Enoch  made,  but,  in  the 
room,  the  still  room,  a  great  sob  sounded. 


V. 


QUIET,  peaceful  days^were  -.hose  that 
followed,  for,  while  the  shadow  of  a 
near  parting  rested  over  Enoch  Foster's 
home,  while  the  chill  mists  from  the  cold 
dark  river  were  thickening  around  Faith, 
not  only  she,  but  Enoch  too,  seemed  almost 
to  hear  with  mortal  ear,  so  clearly  it  sound 
ed  to  the  spiritual,  the  whisper,  "  Fear  thou 
not,  for  when  thou  passest  through  the 
waters,  I  will  be  with  thee."  And  the 
whisper  made  Faith,  timid  woman  though 
she  was,  not  afraid  to  go. 

So  they  stood  together,  hand  in  hand, 
with  little  Paul  beside  them,  down  by  the 
chill  river-bank — hearkening  as  the  storm- 
tossed  mariner  on  Eastern  sea  hearkens  to 
catch  the  mellow  far-away  note  of  the  bells, 
vhich  the  legend  tells  us,  ring  never  so 
4*  (4i) 


42  UP  LA  XDS  A  A  V>  LOU  'LA  .V£>S. 

loudly  as  when  the  waves  are  dash! 

the  cities  buried  beneath  th  tint 

very   faint   were   the   echoes   Enoch    heard, 

and  little  Paul,  scarce  a  strain  he  caught; 

bat  Faith,  she  heard  not  echoes,  but  truly 

songs. 

"Why  do  you  .smile  ?"  Paul  would  ask 
and  the  mother  she  could  not  tell  him  why 
and  yet  she  smiled. 

As  Faith  grew  weaker,  Enoch  went  no 
more  to  the  mill,  but  staid  about  home  all 
dav,  never  going  farther  away  than  to  the 
clearing  down  by  the  lake,  from  where  Paid 
could  call  him  in  a  minute  with  one  sound 
upon  the  horn  which  hung  in  the  door 
way. 

Those  days  Faith  talked  much  with  Paul, 
of  where  she  was  going,  till  the  child  be 
came  so  familiar  with  the  Heavenly  Home, 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  like  a  "  land  that  is 
very  far  off;"  and,  when  too  weary  to  talk. 
his  mother  would  bid  him  read  to  her,  from 
the  Revelation  chapters  which  tell  01 
city  where  they  need  "neither  the  sun  noi 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  43 

the  moon  to  shine,  for  the  Lamb  is  the  light 
of  it ;"  where  "  the  nations  of  them  that  are 
saved  shall  walk ;  where  there  shall  be  no 
night,  nor  sorrow,  crying  or  any  more 
pain ;"  and  then  she  would  find  for  him 
David's  song,  of  "  green  pastures  and  still 
waters,"  or  Isaiah's  page,  where  the  child 
read,  "  of  the  King  in  His  beauty,"  and  the 
quiet  habitation,  a  tabernacle  that  shall  not 
be  taken  down,  where  the  glorious  Lord 
will  be  unto  us  a  place  of  broad  rivers  and 
streams,  and  where  the  inhabitants  shall  not 
say,  "  I  am  sick,"  where  the  people  that 
dwell  therein  shall  be  forgiven  their  iniqui 
ties. 

As  Paul  ceased  reading,  she  was  wont  tc 
murmur  softly,  "  Forgiven,  for  Christ's  sake , 
always  remember  little  Paul,  it  is  for  Christ's 
sake." 

Often  Enoch  would  linger  on  the  door 
step,  for  in  the  stillness  of  the  summer  day, 
broken  only  by  hum  of  insect,  fluttering 
leaves,  and  the  rippling  of  the  brook,  he 
could  distinctly  hear  the  child's  voice,  and 


44  UPLANDS  AX D  LO\V LAX DS. 

sometimes  that  other  dearer  v< 

•'Think  of  it,   P;.ul  dear;  mother  '. 

to  this  beautiful  home,  to  be  with  (iml  our 

Father,  Christ  and  the  angels — "  and  t! 

she  would  bid  him  say  alter  her  the  verse, 

44  God  is  love." 

A  life-long  effect  those,  hours  had  upon 
the  boy's  mind;  he  never  passed  beyond 
their  influence,  and  from  them,  with  the  un 
derlying  love  of  beauty,  which  from  baby 
hood  his  mother  almost  unconsciously  had 
been  developing,  he  seemed  l»  c..lch  the 
inspiration,  not  only  to  perceive' the  beauti 
ful,  but  the  longing  to  share  it  with  others! 
yet  as  a  child,  words  came  not  easily  to 
Paul,  (neither  did  they  when  he  grew  into 
manhood,)  and  perhaps  this  very  lack  of 
power  to  express  his  feelings,  served  to  in 
tensify  the  desire  to  bring  them  out  in  pic 
ture  forms,  so  that  c thcrs  might  set,  what 
he  could  not  tell. 

Many  an  hour  when  his  mother  slept, 
with  flushed  face  and  eagerly  tremulous 
fingers,  did  he  bend  over  the  .ittle  slate 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  45 

which  he  covered  oftener  with  lines  than 
with  figures  those  days,  thinking,  "  Mother 
will  like  it  when  she  wakes ;"  and  Faith, 
mother-like,  straightway  comprehended  the 
child's  endeavour ;  she  could  see,  (as  a 
mother's  eye  can,)  where  no  one  else  could, 
what  he  meant  when  he  pointed  to  the 
lines,  saying  : 

"  See,  that's  the  green  pasture  place,  and 
there's  the  still  waters." 

Thus  the  soul  of  the  artist  was  unfolding 
in  that  simple  home  of  Enoch  Foster's ;  but 
only  the  mother  knew  it.  Well  was  it  her 
loving  eyes  could  not  fathom  the  years  to 
come,  when  that  soul  would  struggle  and 
beat  against  the  bars  of  adverse  circum 
stances. 

Those  summer  days,  when  Paul  sat  by 
his  mother's  side,  reading  to  her  of  the  Home 
Beyond — when  he  had  not  learned  the 
verse,  that  so  often  creeps  in  like  a  sad  re 
frain  when  we  think  of  heaven,  murmuring, 
"  There  the  wicked  eease  from  troubling 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest ;"  shutting  away 


46  UPLANDS  AND  LO  Iff..  iNDS. 

that  other  fuller,  dearer  ;hc  comfort- 

promise  Christ  gave,  "  Where  I  am,  there 
-hall  be  also,"  always  were  nm<  inhered 
by  Paul,  as  we  remember  the  calm  days 
that  follow  wild  storm  on  ocean  beach, 
when  we  linger  on  the  shore  to  gather  the 
sea  flowers  of  fairy  texture  and  delicate 
hue  ;  when  the  yellow  sands  are  sti\ 
with  shells  of  varied  tint  and  marvellous 
form;  when  we  go  home,  laden  with  treas 
ures,  sometimes  almost  unmindful  that  our 

re  born  mid  storms. 

All  the  time,  it  was  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer — the  parting  day.  Enoch  knew  it 
(so  did  Faith).  Knew  it  so  well  that  he 
never  lifted  his  eyes  towards  the  purple 
hills  at  sunrise,  never  looked  at  the  deep 
ening  shadows  creeping  over  the  hills  at 
nightfall,  without  seeming  to  hear  a  voice 
murmuring,  "At  even,  or  at  midnight,  or 
at  the  cock  crowing,  or  in  the  morning,"  the 
call  may  come  bidding  her  go.  And  yet, 
the  last  day  came,  and  they  did  not  think  it 
would  be  the  last — such  a  beautiful  day  ; 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


47 


a  day  cloudless  as  the  one  on  which  he 
brought  her  to  his  home.  And,  she  left 
him — just  as  she  came  to  him  then — smiling, 

They  never  thought  she  was  going  ;  they* 
never  thought  that  they  were  the  last 
words.  Those  few  words,  asking,  "  Paul, 
little  Paul,  kiss  mother — Enoch,  kiss  me;" 
for  she  smiled — smiled  and  closed  her  eyes 
as  though  to  sleep.  And  they  did  not 
know,  neither  husband  nor  child,  that  an 
angel  was  there.  They  did  not  hear  the 
rustling  of  his  wings  ;  they  did  not  hear  the 
"  still  small  voice "  whispering,  "  So  He 
giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

But,  by  and  by  they  knew ;  and  words 
are  not  needed  to  tell  of  the  after  hours, 
for  they  are  no  strangers  those  angels  of 
life  and  death,  in  these  earthly  nests  of  ours 
which  we  call  homes. 

They  made  her  grave  by  the  brook 
where  the  waters  sing  all  day  long.  Sing 
at  night,  too ;  where  the  flowers  open  first 
in  spring  And  then,  they  came  back  to  the 
desolate  cottage — the  father  and  the  child. 


VL 

A  MONTH  later,  Enoch  and  Paul  slocd 
(where  they  had  been  so  often)  in  the 
twilight,  by  the  side  of  the  lonely  grave-. 

On  the  morrow  they  were  going  far  away 
westward.  Yet.  Enoch  knew  he  would  not 
escape  his  sorrow  by  thus  turning  from  his 
desolate  home.  He  knew  his  heart  would 
cry  out  just  as  loudly  for  Faith,  in  a  strange 
place  as  there ;  where  every  stone,  every 
tree  and  bush,  seemed  laden  with  memories 
of  her.  Still,  he  thought  (just  as  so  many 
sorrow-stricken  souls  have  thought  before,) 
he  and  Paul  could  bear  it  better  cl><  where. 
So  they  were  going,  though  Faith's  aunt 
(their  only  relative)  had  shook  her  head  in 
disapproval  of  the  plan,  saying, 

"  What  will  become  of  the  boy  in  them 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS. 


49 


strange  parts,  if  you  was  took  sick,  or  any 
thing?" 

But  Enoch  was  strong;  he  was  young, 
too,  and  never  felt  a  fear  for  himself,  as  he 
put  aside  Miss  Fowler's  objections,  and 
those  of  Farmer  Jones's  wife,  whose  kind 
motherly  heart  yearned  over  little  Paul ;  so 
much,  that  she  came  one  day  to  say : 

"  If  you  will  trust  him  with  me,  Mr. 
Foster,  I'll  set  as  much  store  by  him  as  if 
he  \vas  my  own." 

"  Thank  you,  kindly,"   Enoch  answered, 
"  but,  only  God  can  separate  me  from  Paul 
I  never  will  leave  the  boy  till  He  calls." 

"  Well,"  responded  Mrs.  Jones,  "  least 
ways,  you  '11  let  me  have  an  eye  to  your, 
and  the  child's  fixings  for  winter,  before  you 
go ; "  which  request  Enoch  gratefully  ac 
cepted. 

But  when  she  came  to  look  over  their 
little  stock  of  clothes,  she  found  the  impress 
of  another  hand — a  hand,  tenderer  than  hers, 
that  had  anticipated  every  want  of  husband 
and  child  for  months  to  come. 
5 


50  UP  i  ns. 

Mrs.  Jones  (as  she  told  her  husband  n! 
wards),  "shed  more  tears  over  them  thi 
than  ever  they  were  worth,"  and   yet,   they 
were    not    many ;    the   old   fashioned    blue 
chest  which  had  belonged  to* Faith's 
held  them  all — held,  too,  th 
that  were  to  be  taken  to  the  western  home. 
The   old    Bible,   several    books    which    had 
been   Faith's — a  blue   ribbon    she    used    to 
r — the   little    work-basket,   just   as   she 
had  left  it,  with  <\><>< 'Is  half  empty,  with  the 
shining  needles  still  in  the  last  bit  of  work 
her  dear  hands  had  held,  a  little  stock 
for   Paul — these,   with    one   or   two    other 
things,  valueless,  except  for  trnder  memo 
ries,  were  the  treasures  Enoch  took. 

The  old  rocking-chair,  with  its  faded 
chintz  cushions,  against  which  the  pale  face 
had  rested,  the  weary  head  had  been  wont  to 
lean,  had  been  sent  with  the  spinning-whee. 
to  Miss  Fowler,  while  the  other  furniture, 
the  new  family  who  were  to  call  the  cot 
tage  "  home  "  had  bought. 

Paul's  "  precious  things,"  took  more  room 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  t,  £ 

than  his  father's,  for,  Enoch  could  not  say 
no  !  though  Mrs.  Jones  did  remonstrate  once 
or  twice,  as  the  child  brought  some  new 
package,  asking:  "  What  do  you  want  with 
such  rubbish,  Paul?" 

"  Let  him  take  all  we  can  find  room 
for,"  answered  Enoch,  in  the  boy's  stead,  as 
he  knelt  before  the  open  chest,  and  made  a 
place  in  an  odd  corner  for  Paul's  bag  of 
smooth  stones  and  pebbles,  which  he  knew 
the  child  prized  because  he  had  found  them 
with  his  mother.  The  primer  and  the  t)ld 
spelling  book,  they  had  to  go  to — and  the 
little  slate,  carefully  folded  in  paper,  that 
the  lines  which  covered  it,  might  not  be 
rubbed  off,  for, 

"  You  know  father,"  Paul  said,  in  a  voice 
too  low  for  Mrs.  Jones  to  hear,  "  that's  the 
picture  I  made,  the  day  before  mother 
\vent — and  called  it  the  green  pasture,  and 
tfie  still  water  place,  you  remember." 

Yes,  Enoch  remembered. 

At  last  the  packing  was  accomplished,  the 
chest  locked  and  corded,  and  the  card 


1,2  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS 

which   Enoch  had  printed  in  large   letters 
nailed  on. 

Then  Mrs.  Jones  went  home,  promising 
to  come  again  before  dark,  and  Enoch  hail 
an  errand  down  in  the  village — so  Paul  was 
left  alone. 

The  child  climbed  on  the  chest  and  began 
to  amuse  himself  by  spelling  out  the  direc 
tion,  "  Tompkinsville."  What  kind  of  a 
place  would  it  be,  he  wondered?  Thomp 
kinsville — he  read  the  name  over  and  over, 
and  then,  suddenly,  he  burst  into  passionate 
weeping,  he  did  not  even  hear  Mrs.  Jones 
return— did  not  know  she  was  there,  till  the 
kind-hearted  woman  had  lifted  him  in  her 
arms,  and  bade  him  tell  her,  "  what  was  the 
matter."  But  Paul  could  not  tell — he  only 
sobbed  more  pitifully.  It  was  long  before 
he  grew  quiet,  and  the  quietness  was  sadder 
than  his  loud  grief.  Not  till  he  heard  his 
father's  approaching  footsteps,  did  he  It 
the  shelter  of  Mrs.  Jones'  arms,  bra. 
struggling  to  hide  his  sorrow,  because  as 
he  said,  "  Mother  always  smiled  when  lather 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  53 

came."  And  yet,  half  an  hour  after,  he 
was  chattering  merrily,  seeming  all-forget 
ful  of  the  storm  that  had  shaken  his  frame, 
iust  as  nature  seems  to  forget  and  covers 
the  very  place  where  sweetest  flowers  faded 
and  died,  with  new  buds  and  blossoms — just 
as  the  sunshine  hardly  waits  for  the  thun 
der-clouds  to  roll  over  horizon-ward  ere  it 
breaks  through,  in  shining  beams,  which 
dance  and  play  amid  the  cloud-shadows, 
as  smiles  amid  childhood's  tears.  Yet, 
spite  the  seeming  forgetfulness,  does .  the 
child  ever  cease  to  remember  the  tears  he 
shed  P'the  earth  to  mourn  its  faded  flowers? 

the  sunshine  to  woo  back  its  clouds  ? 

• 

"  You'll  find  a  package  of  ginger-cakes 
on  the  table,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  "  I  fetched 
'em  over,  thinking  Paul  might  like  'em  on 
his  journey  to-morrow — though  I'll  see  you 
in  the  morning  afore  ye  start ;"  and  again 
she  left  them.  It  was  only  a  little  while 
later,  when  Enoch  and  Paul  went  to  the 
grave. 

The  next  morning,  while  the  dawn  was 


54  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

still  gray,  the  rumbling  of  wheels   rev; 
here   and    there   a   sleeper,    as   the    wagon 
which  carried   Enoch,   Paul,  and  the  blue 
chest,  jolted  over  the  hills.      Enoch  never 
turned  once  to  look  at  the  cottage  —  he  just 
gazed  straight  on  —  but  Paul  did  not  1 
sight  of  it,   till   the   hills  shut  it  ;:\v:i\  ;  the 
home  of  his  babyhood — the  home  of  his  ear  ly 
childhood,  from  which  he  went  forth  that 
day,  leaving  it  behind  him. 


VII. 

"  "TTTHAT  is  on  the  other  side,  father?' 
V  V      Paul  had  been  wont  to  ask,  look 
ing  up   at   the   hills,   which   encircled   the 

village  of  W ,  the  lake  and  the  cottage, 

and  his  father's  reply, 

"  Other  towns,  larger  than  W ,  where 

many  more  people  live,  other  hills  and  lakes, 
meadows  and  brooks," — had  been  only  half- 
comprehended,  for  like  a  child,  the  boy  felt 
AS  though  the  barrier  line 'which  he  saw, 
must  edge  the  world.  Not  till  the  night 
before,  when  he  had  spelt  out  letter  by  let 
ter,  the  name  of  the  new  place  to  which 
they  were  going,  had  Paul  realized,  that  he 
was  soon  to  answer  his  own  oft-asked  ques 
tion,  "  What  is  on  the  other  side  ?  "  by  look 
ing  over,  to  see. 

Unconsciously,  he  was  in  intimate  sym 

(55) 


56  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

pathy  with  the  hills ;  like  companions  they 
:ned    to   him — great   protective    friends, 
that  always  in   winter  and    summer,   were 
looking  at  him,  and  always  looked  kindlv. 

:i  before  he  could  speak  distinctly, 
and  long  before  he  understood  the  words, 
his  mother  had  taught  him  the  verse,  "  As 
the  mountains  are  round  about  Jerusalem, 
so  the  Lord  is  round  about  His  people." 

Paul's  intense  love  of  color,  made  them 
very  dear  also,  for  it  was  the  hill  tops  which 
caught  the  first  violet  and  rosy  hues  of 
dawn,  that  were  crowned  with  sunbeams, 
while  the  valley  was  still  in  shadow;  on 
them,  too,  the  golden  light  lingered,  t 
when  it  was  nightfall  down  below. 

Very  wonderful  the  mountains  seemed  to 
Paul,  and  unformed  as  his  child-mind 
in  that  knowledge  which  makes  a  reason  for 
the  mysteries  of  nature,  (a  reason,  which 
alas  often  robs  it  of  its  mystical  charm,) 
firmly  he  believed  "  some  where,"  up  among 
the  hills,  were  lurking  places,  where  after 
the  early  morning  hours  the  sun-rise  glories 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  57 

hid,  not  to  come  out  again  till  just  before 
the  gloaming  time. 

Sitting  one  summer  day  on  the  door-step, 
leaning  his  head  against  his  mother's  kneet 
while  with  light  touch  her  fingers  stroked 
his  dark  hair,  he  had  asked  : 

"  Do  the  beautiful  colors  come  out  at 
night  and  morning,  mother  ?  To  kiss  the 
earth,  just  as  you  do  me,  when  I  go  to  sleep, 
and  when  I  wake  up  ?  " 

And  then,  mother  and  child  had  fallen 
into  a  quiet  talk,  the  memory  of  which  stay 
ed  with  Paul  all  his  life  long.  There  had 
been  one  of  those  sudden  showers,  xwhich 
come  so  often  in  the  hill  countries,  one  can 
scarce  tell  from  where.  It  was  over  in  half- 
an-hour,  at  least  the  sun  was  shining,  and 
the  rain  clouds  had  blown  up  northward. 
"  But  look !  "  the  boy  had  exclaimed.  "  See, 
it  is  growing  right  out  of  Round  Top — the 
rainbow — coming  right  out  of  the  ground, 
and  going  up  into  the  sky,  just  a  little  way, 
and  then  down  again  into  the  mountain,  oh, 
if  I  could  find  out  where  it  grows,  wouldn  't 


j8  UPLANDS  AXD  LOll'L.l.\'l)S. 

I  have  beautiful  colors  for  my  pictures!  "— 
and  thu;  child  had  planned  for  the  time 
when  he  would  be  a  big  man,  like  his  fiither, 
and  could  go  and  "dig  down  deep  ene>;igh 
to  find  the  rainbow's  roots."  • 

Presently  his  mother  had  softly  told  him, 
the  old-time  story  of  the  Bow  of  Promise; 
afterward,  trying  in  her  simple  way  to 
pi. tin,  that  it  was  only  rain-drops,  and  the 
sun  shining  on  them  that  made  the  beauti 
ful   arch    in   the   heavens.     But,    Paul    had 
shook   his  curly  head  at  the  idea  of  such 
beautiful  bands  of  color  being  rain-drops, 
and  said,  "  Why,  mother,  rain  is  nothing  but 
the  sky  a-crying,  and  things  don  't 
cept  they  are  hurt  or  naughty,  does  tin 
Gently,  his  mother  had  replied,  that  "  the 
sky  did  not  cry  when  the  rain  fell — though, 
perhaps" — and  in  Faith's  eyes  a  far  away 
look  had  come,  it  was  the  naughty  things 
done  on  the  earth,  that  made  the  earth 
and  its  tears,  if  they  were  sorry  tears,  be 
cause  people  had  done  wrong,  went  up  to 
the  blue  ^sky  in  mist-drops,  which  formed  a 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


59 


little  cloud,  that  whispered,  "  Forgive  the 
wrong  the  people  have  done ;"  and,  then, 
the  blue  sky  whispered,  "  I  forgive — go  back 
to  earth  you  little  tear-drops  of  repentance 
in  gentle  dews,  freshening  the  opening  flow 
ers,  in  soft  showers,  nourishing  the  grain  and 
ripening  fruits,  in  plenteous  rains,  filling  the 
empty  brooks  among  the  hills,  that  they 
may  replenish  the  lakes  and  rivers,  and  give 
drink  to  thirsty  men  and  cattle."  And  Paul 
had  listened  to  his  mother,  as  children  listen 
to  some  wonderful  elfin  tale,  of  green- wood 
fairy,  or  water-nymph  ;  never  knowing  till 
years  after,  that  her  words  were  a  life-alle 
gory.  For,  is  not  life  sending  up  to  heaven 
all  the  time,  misdeeds,  ill-spent  minutes — 
trifling  words — sending  them  up  with  the 
cry,  "  Father,  forgive  ;"  and  does  he  not  for 
give  ?  So  freely,  so  fully,  that  the  very 
wrong  deeds  when  repented  of,  come  back 
in  blessings,  whispering,  "  Even  the  wrath 
of  man  shall  praise  Him."  "  To  whom 
much  is  forgiven,  he  loveth  much." 
And  yet,  ever  these  words  are  echoed 


60  UPLANDS  AND  LOH 'LANDS. 

with  those  other  words,  "Go,  and  sin   no 
more." 

So  it  was,  (as  it  often  is,)  memories  of  the 
mother,  so  early  called  from  him,  kept 
bright  the  golden  thread  of  Paul's  life,  for 
the  impressions  of  childhood,  though  < 
dimmed,  often  forgotten  for  months  and 
years,  never  died  out  of  his  heart. 
God  held  that  golden  thread,  though  Paul, 
turning  away  from  God  for  a  time,  sadly 
tarnished  and  tangled  it ;  yet  always,  though 
for  a  little  while  but  by  a  single  cord,  a 
gossamer  cord,  he  was  bound  to  the  Father, 
whom  his  mother  had  taught  him  to  call, 
by  that  fullest  of  Fatherhood  names — "  God 
is  lox 

This  talk  of  the  rain-drops  was  months 
before  Faith  "went  up  to  the  blue  skv," 
months  before  Paul  and  Enoch  drove  ovei 
the  hills  in  the  early  morning — going  forth 
to  seek  a  new  home. 


VIII. 

r~FlHE  wagon  in  which  they  began  thei. 
J-  journey  was  known,  for  miles  around, 
as  the  "  Mail  Bag,"  which  went  on  one  day 
to  the  neighboring  town  of  M ,  and  re 
turned  the  next,  bringing  the  little  news  of 
the  outside  world  which  found  its  way  into 

W ,  through  the  columns  of  one  or  two 

semi-weekly  newspapers. 

These,  with  a  few  letters,  and  an  occasion 
al  passenger,  made  up  "  the  load,  mostly,' 
as  old  Phil,  the  driver  and  proprietor  of  the 
conveyance,  used  to  say. 

Phil  was  a  rough,  weather-beaten  looking 
man,  somewhere  near  seventy  years  of  age, 
whose  face  was  lined  with  marks  of  care : 
whose  eyes  were  deep  set,  under  brows 
shaggy  and  gray ;  he  was  somewhat  stern 
in  manner  but  with  a  heart  so  kindly,  chil- 
6  (61) 


L'r/..l.\'DS  A.\D  LOU'I.AXDS. 

dren  and  animals  always  loved   him,  spite 
his  now  and  then  gruff  voice. 

He  carried  on  quite  a  business  in  the  wa\ 
of  "  peddling,"  and    Paul    had   known    and 
watched    for    "old    Phil's"   coming    c\ 
spring  and  autumn  that  he  could  remember, 
tor  it  always  had  been  an   hour  of  pi--.; 
excitement  to  the  boy,  when  the  familiar  rap 
sou'nded  at  the  door,  and  Phil  entered,  hold 
ing  up  some  bright  knots  of  yarn  for  Paul's 
mittens  or  socks,  or  a  winter  cap,  or  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  as  the  season  mi^ht 
and  asked,  in  a  shrill  voice,  "  What 'ill  ye 
have  in   my  line  to-day,  Miss  Foster,"  and 
then,  even  when    Faith's   reply    had    ! 
"  \Ve  do  not  need  a  new  thing,  Phil,"  it  had 
been  his  wont  to  come  into  the  little  kitch 
en,  and  untie  the  mysterious  packs,  the  con 
tents  of  which  he  .so  delighted  to  display. 

Thus  it  had  come   about,  that  much   of 
Faith's  simple  shopping  had  been  sele 
from  old  Phil's  stock. 

lie  never  went  away  without  fumbling  in 
his  coat-pockets,  which  Paul    thought  un. 


UPLANDS  AND  L01VLA.VDS.  63 

fathomable,  from  the  generous  supplies 
which  came  forth,  of,  as  Phil  used  to  say, 
"goodies  for  the  boy." 

This  was  not  all  the  old  man  brought  to 
the  cottage,  for,  in  his  way,  he  was  some 
thing  of  a  thinker,  and  though  unlearned 
in  the  wisdom  of  the  schools,  he  was 
well-versed  in  heart  experience ;  thus  he 
never  came  and  went  without  leaving  with 
Faith,  some  words  of  counsel,  more  last 
ing  than  the  "  goodies "  which  so  pleased 
Paul. 

Phil  did  not  speak  for  some  time  after  he 
had  exchanged  good -morning  greetings 
with  Enoch  and  Paul,  recognizing  that  si 
lence  was  the  kindest  sympathy  he  could 
show,  as  they  drove  away  from  the  cottage 
gate.  Indeed,  not  till  they  reached  the  vil 
lage  ;  not  till  they  had  passed  Doctor  Mil 
ler's,  and  were  nearing  the  low,  rambling 
tavern  at  the  end  of  the  street,  did  he  break 
the  quiet,  by  giving  his  whip  a  loud  snap, 
and  encouraging  the  lazy  horses  into  a  brisk 
trot,  by  his  sharply  uttered,  "  Go  along,  old 


64  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

fellers."     Reining  up  before   the   inn-door 
loudly  he  called : 

"  Halloo,  1  say.  Any  folks  for  me,  this 
raornin'.?  Step  along  smart-like  if  they  be  ; 
we  hain't  no  time  to  waste." 

11  is  voice  roused  a  sleepy  dog,  who  be 
gan  a  vigorous  barking,  and  brought  to  the 
door  the  red-faced  innkeeper,  who  had  a 
letter  or  so  to  send  ;  following  him,  came 
two  passengers,  lumber-men,  who,  as  they 
.  were^oing  off,  "  whar  clean ns  warn  't 

so   plenty   as  round    W ."    "  Step   in 

spry,"  was  Phil's  welcome  to  them  ;  and  then 
the  whip  snapped  a^.iin,  and  with  another, 
e-up,  old  fellers — lively  now,  I  say, 
lively,"  the  horses  started  at  a  quick  pace, 
and  in  half  an  hour  the  quiet  village, 
tied  so  safely  in  the  valley  among  the  hills, 
was  far  behind  them. 

The  road  led  for  some  time  through  the 
woods,  where  it  was  almost  dark  still,  so 
densely  the  pine  trees  grew. 

Paul  wondered,  when  they  came  out  into 
un  open  place  for  a  few  minutes,  tu  hnd  the 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  65 

sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and  shining 
brightly. 

"  See,  father,"  he  said,  "  it  is  real  day 
light."  Enoch  only  replied  by  a  low,  "yes," 
though  he  roused  himself,  for  the  boy's 
sake,  to  look  round. 

True  enough,  it  was  daylight,  and  some 
thing  in  its  brightness,  contrasted  with  the 
shadows  of  the  forest  through  which  they 
had  just  passed,  made  Enoch  close  his  eyes 
with  a  vivid  sense  of  that  something  which 
we  all  feel,  when,  after  a  great  sorrow  or 
change  in  our  lives,  we  are  brought  sudden 
ly  face  to  face  with  the  same  daylight,  the 
same  glad  sunshine,  blooming  flowers,  and 
singing  bijds,  that  used  to  be  before  we  had 
known  dai  kness. 

It  is  not  that  we  wish  a  sober  light  to  rest 
on  the  world,  a  plaintive  note  to  sound  in 
the  bird-songs,  or  a  drooping  grace  to  come 
into  the  flowers,  to  suit  our  altered  mood  • 
only,  it  seems  so  hard  at  first,  to  find  every 
thing  the  same. 

The  ascent  of  the  hill  began  soon,  a  steep, 
6* 


66  cri..i\i)s  .'- 

rough  way,  so  shut  in   :  t  trees,  that 

onlv  glimpses  of  the  blue  sky  were  framed 
in     by    the     massive     evergreen     \nn\ 
through  which,  here  and  there* flitting, dan 
cing  sun-rays  stole  in  and  out. 

It  was  almost  noon-time  before  they  n 
ed  the  summit  of  Round  Top.     "A  reg 'lar 
mountin,"  Phil  called  it,  and  "  an  awful  hard 
pull  for  the  hosses.    But  we  are  nigh  to  the 
top,"  he  said,  smiling  at  Paul,  as  he  a>k 

"  Do  ye  see  them  hay-stacks,  and  that  'er' 
house  over  yender?  Thar's  the  place  whar 
we  stop  to  rest  a  bit,  and  take  a  bite  of  re 
freshment  for  man  and  b 

Paul  had  climbed  over  into  the  front  seat 
by  Phil,  whose  words,  "  nigh  to  the  top," 
wakened   the  mysterious  impression  of  the 
wonders  he  pictured  on  "  the  other  side," 
which  now  the  child  thought  would 
ly  be  revealed.    He  crept  close  to  Phil,  and 
nestled  his  little  hand  into  the  folds  of  the 
gray  coat  the  old  man  wore,  gently  pulling 
at  his  sleeve,  while  he  repeated  the  qm 
he   had  so  often  asked    bis    lathe  i,  say  in-- 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  67 

'  What 's  on  the  other  side,  Phil?  We  will 
see  soon,  won  't  we  ?  " 

"Gracious  me!"  replied  Phil,  "thar's 
nothin'  uncommon  to  see,  jist  a  plain,  and 
then  another  hill  to  climb  ;  and,  jist  so  we 
must  travel  along  till  night-fall.  What  did 
ye  reckon  ye  was  to  see,  hey  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don  't  know,"  answered  Paul,  hesi 
tatingly,  "  but  I  thought — I  thought — there 
was  a  place  up  on  top  of  the  mountains, 
where  the  beautiful  things  come  out  from, 
and,  father  said,  there  was  lots  of  folks  and 
houses  on  the  other  side." 

"  So  thar  is,  boy,  over  beyon',  lots  of 
people,  and  lots  of  houses,  but  most  on  'em 
are  the  same  kind  o'  folks  as  ye  seed  down 

in  W ;  as  for  beautiful  things,  what  do 

ye  want  more,  child,  than  ye  Ve  got  now  ?  " 

And  the  old  man  looked  about  him,  at  the 
great  pine  trees  and  moss-covered  rocks, 
with  a  satisfied  nod. 

"  But,"  continued  Paul,  "  must  we  go  on 
climbing  up  hills  all  the  time?" 

It  was  only  a  child's  question  ;  they  were 


68  UPLA NDS  AND  LO  If/..  1  .\/)S. 

only  rough  men  who  heard  it,  —  and  yet, 
there  fell  a  silence  over  them  all,  and  Paul, 
though. but  a  boy  often  years,  irtt  even 
then,  a  close  student  of  faces,  and  instinc- 
iy  he  felt  he  must  not  push  his  question 
farther.  But,  he  looked  with  a 
terest  at  Phil,  whose  keen  eyes  were  twink 
ling  and  shining,  from  the  thoughts  back  ot 
them;  then  he  turned  to  his  father,  whose 
face  was  grave,  who  seemed  looking  far  off, 
as  though  he  saw  something  beyond  the 
hills;  he  glanced  also  toward  the  lumber 
men,  just  as  the  younger  of  them  ^a 
low  whistle,  and  smiled  a  smile  wlm 
ed  to  say,  "  Who  fears  the  hills  to  climb  ?" — 
just  as  the  older  man  sighed.  Paul  was 
grown  up  before  he  read  the  definition  of 
spirit  beauty,  either  in  man's  or  woman's 
face,  which  calls  it,  "  one-fifth  expression 
of  thought,  four-fifths  of  feeling,"  and 
though  he  never  clearly  defined  why, 
straightway  he  linked  those  words  with  a 
memory  of  the  faces  of  the  silent  men,  alter 
he  had  asked  the  unanswered  question, 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  69 

"  Must  we  go  on  climbing  up  hills  all  the 
time?" 

Was  it  possible,  that  the  child's  eye 
caught  a  gleam  of  beauty,  spirit  beauty,  on 
those  weather-beaten,  sun-browned  faces, 
and  was  that  the  reason  he  never  forgot 
them  ?  Why  not  ? 

They  were  fishermen,  tent  menders, 
among  that  band  of  hard-working  men,  who 
followed  Him  who  walked  the  Galilean  hill- 
slopes  and  whom  the  rulers  called  "  the 
carpenter's  son,"  and  yet,  their  pictured 
faces  look  from  palace  walls  in  gilded  cham 
bers,  from  cathedral  dome,  and  chapel 
niche.  She  was  a  lowly  woman,  whose 
babe  lay  in  a  manger,  where  horned  cattle 
fed — she,  whom  the  rulers  knew,  as  the 
mother  of  the  star-heralded  one ;  and  yet, 
the  "  singers  of  high  poems,"  gather  about 
her,  revealing  by  their  words,  as  the  artist 
does  by  his  brush, 


"  An  image  of  some  bright  eternity, 
A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream,"— 


70  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS, 

while 

"  There  is  a  vision  in  the  heart  of  each, 
Of  justice,  mercy,  wisdvm,  tenderness 
To  wrong  in  pain,  and  knowledge  of  their  cure  ; 
And  these  embodied  in  a  woman's  form. 
That  best  transmits  them  pure  as  first  received, 
From  God  above  her  to  mankind  below  !" 

And  why  is  all  this,  but  because  the 
glory  caught  in  those  poor  men's  faces,  in 
that  humble  virgin's  smile,  was  the  same  light 
that  may  look  forth  now,  from  the  poor  and 
lowly,  as  well  as  the  rich  and  cultured, — 
the  light  reflected  from  the  Divine  illu 
mination  that  fills  the  soul,  that  knows 
the  abiding  presence  of  Him — our  Lord 
Christ. 

Dinner  was  all  ready,  "smoking  hot," 
when  they  reached  the  farm-house. 

"  We  'ill  stop  and  rest  for  a  good  bit," 
said  Phil  (for  the  day  wa^  sultry),  "  and  give 
the  sun  a  chance  to  git  the  start  on  us ;  bet 
ter  be  a  little  behind  time  at  M ,  than 

melt  away  agoing." 

So  the  shadows  of  the  trees  were  begin- 


UP  LA  NDS  AND  L  O  WLA  NDS.  j  \ 

ning  to  lengthen  when  they  started  again,  and 
a  cool  breeze  had  sprung  up.  Paul  was  al 
most  sorry  to  go  ;  for,  spite  his  anxiety  to 
know  what  would  come  next,  he  had  made 
friends  with  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  who 
were  aged  people,  and  who  had  once  had 
a  "  boy  of  their  own." 

"  Jist  wait  a  bit,  sonny,"  the  old  woman 
called,  as  Paul  was  running  toward  the 
wagon,  in  which  his  father  and  the  other 
men  were  already  seated — "  wait  a  bit ;"  and 
she  disappeared  behind  one  of  the  many 
doors  opening  out  of  the  great  kitchen, 
coming  back  in  *a  minute  with  her  apron 
full  of  rosy-cheeked  apples,  with  which  she 
filled  Paul's  pockets  and  a  little  willow 
basket,  saying,  as  she  gave  it  to  him, 

"  I  reckon  ye  '11  like  'em  by  and  by." 
And  it  must  have  been  something  in  the 
thought  of  the  boy's  being  motherless  (for 
Phil  had  told  her),  that  touched  her  heart 
with  unwonted  tenderness,  for  she  stooped 
down  and  kissed  the  child,  as  she  whispered, 
"  Remember,  be  a  good  boy,  allers ;  for 


-2  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

God  can  see  ye,  whatever  ye  do;  and,  like 
enough,  yer  Ma  can,  too. 

"  Come  along,"  called  Phil,  and  Paul  had 
not  time  to  reply ;  but,  as  they  drove  away, 
he  turned  back  to  wave  his  hand,  saving, 
at  the  same  time,  to  his  father,  "  I  like  folks 
that  live  on  the  top  of  hills,  they  are  so 
kind/ 
If  the  boy  could  have  looked  at  Phil's 
face  as  he  uttered  those  words,  he  would 
have  seen  the  same  "  shining  look "  that 
had  shone  before  in  the  old  man's  eyes ;  he 
would  have  seen  his  lips  move,  as  he  mut 
tered,  in  a  low  voice  to 'himself,  "A  city 
that  is  set  on  a  hill  cannot  be  hid." 
Turning  round,  Phil  said,  aloud, 
"I  reckon,  Mr.  Foster,  the  followers  of 
the  Lord,  as  the  Dominie  calls  'em  are 
'  h  i  11  top '  folks.  Don't  y ou  ?" 


IX. 

IT  was  long  after  sunset  when  they 
reached  M .  Paul  had  been  asleep 

for  an  hour  or  more,  and  he  was  so  tired, 
he  only  woke  up  for  a  minute,  to  ask, 
;<  Where  are  we?"  as  his  father  carried  him 
into  the  tavern,  where  they  "were  to  spend 
the  night. 

"  Ther  'aint  a  crack  nor  a  corner  for  ye," 
said  the  landlord,  in  reply  to  Enoch's  re 
quest  for  a  room.  And  he  added, 

"  It's  'lection  time,  and  every  place  is 
full.  That  'er  settee,  over  yonder,  is  the 
best  fixin  we  can  give  ye." 

"  It  will  do,"  said  Enoch,  who  did  not 
much  care,  so  long  as  there  was  a  place  for 
Paul  to  rest. 

Gently  he  laid  the  sleeping  boy  down, 
covering  him  up  tenderly  as  a  woman 
7  (73) 


-4  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

could  have  done,  with  the  home-spun 
blanket  the  landloid  brought;  for,  though 
the  day  had  been  so  warm,  the  summer 
night  was  chilly. 

Enoch  drew  his  cha.r  c'ose  to  Paul's  *•' 
II  felt  tired,  and  faint;  and  yet,  had  no  wish 
to  join  the  group  of  men  gathered  around 
the  long  table  at  the  end  of  the  room.  Ail 
day  he  had  struggled  to  keep  back  the 
great  home-sickness,  the  great  longing  in 
his  heart  for  Faith — just  one  glimpse  of 
Faith,  his  little  Snow-flake — one  touch  of  her 
hand,  one  whisper  of  her  clear  voice  ;  and  at 
night-fall  it  came  over  him  and  would  not 
De  quieted.  Like  a  rushing  torrent,  in  early 
spring,  it  seemed,  dashing  on  its  way,  regard 
less  of  the  upspringing  flowers — the  bud 
ding  trees — it  carried  before  it  on  swift  : 
out  to  the  broad  shoreless  ocean. 

And   there   Enoch   sat,  all   through   the 
long  night,  iccling  alone  with  his  grief,  for 
he  forgot,  that  dark  night,  the  One  wh«> 
change  sorrow  into  joy  was  still  near  him. 

Not    till    the    faint    morning    light    w;ii 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  75 

edging  the  horizon  line  with  a  pale  silvery 
glow,  did  he  fall  into  a  restless  sleep,  which 
could  have  lasted  not  even  a  brief  half  hour, 
for  it  was  still  dark  in  the  room  when  he 
felt  the  touch  of  Phil's  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  heard  the  sound  of  the  old  man's  grufi 
but  kindly  voice,  as  he  said, 

"  I'm  off,  Mr.  Foster,  good-bye  to  ye,  and 
good  fortin  tend  ye  and  the  young  un. 
A  lively,  wide-awake  chap  he  is,  that  boy 
of  yourn."  And  the  old  man's  tone  grew 
lower,  almost  tremulous,  as  he  added,  "  The 
Lord  bless  ye  both.  And,  ye  know,  He's 
a  leading  you,  in  the  dark,  jest  the  same, 
Mr.  Foster,  as  He  leads  ye  when  ye'r'  in  the 
light,  only  ye  don't  see  Him  so  plain  like — 
that's  all  the  difference." 

Hardly  had  Phil  gone  when  the  landlord 
appeared,  saying : 

"  Step  this  way  if  you  want  breakfast 
afore  ye  go;  it'll  be  time  for  ye  to  start 
afore  long." 

"  Wake  up,"  said  Enoch,  as  he  bent  over 
the  sleeping  boy,  "  wake  up." 


76  UPLANDS  AND  LO IVLANDS. 

Paul  shook  himself,  and  looked  round,  be 
wildered  by  the  strange  room,  and  unknown 
man.  Half  frightened,  he  caught  hold  of  his 
lather's  hand,  and,  not  till  Enoch  explained, 
"This  is  the  tavern  where  we  came  last 
ni^ht  with  Phil,"  was  the  child  reassured. 

The  breakfast  was  a  hasty  meal ;  so  hasty, 
that  the  morning  light  had  not  put  the 
stars  out,  when  Enoch  and  Paul  started 
once  more  on  their  journey. 

Strange  eventful  days  were  those  which 
followed;  full  of  new  emotions  t<>  Paul,  who 
thought  the  wonders  being  revealed  to 
him,  on  the  "other  side  of  the  hill,"  would 
never  end,  for,  "  We  are  over  now,  ain't  we, 
father?"  he  said. 

And  yet,  those  days  all  blended  into  one 
confused  memory  in  the  child's  mind; 
where  crowded  stage  coaches,  rough  r<  > 
villages,  rivers,  and  mountains,  were  oddly 
mingled  one  with  the  other.  Only  the  first 
day,  the  day  of  leaving  home  and  driving 
over  the  hills  with  Phil,  and  the  last  day  of 
their  journey,  stood  out  in  his  memorj'  ever 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS. 


77 


clearly  defined  and  isolated  from  the  inter 
vening  time ;  for  in  this,  the  young  are  like 
those  who  have  traveled  far  on  in  life's  pil 
grimage,  and  who  go  back  to  the  starting 
place,  and  tell  you  of  it  as  though  it  were 
but  yesterday,  bridging  over  the  years  be 
tween  with  scarce  a  word,  as  they  link  the 
long  ago  Past  with  the  Present.  Have  you. 
never  noticed  this,  standing  by  the  side  of 
some  old  man,  with  bowed  form,  and  time- 
whitened  hair,  hearing  him  tell  of  the  days 
when  he  was  a  boy — seeing  his  face  light  up 
with  the  recollection  of  some  merry  frolic, 
a  school-boy  prank,  or  perchance  some 
tenderer  tale — some  tale  like  that  of  which 
the  poet  sang : 

"  I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way  • 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day." 

And  have  you  never  wondered  what  he 
7* 


78  UPLANDS  AX  D  LOW  LAX  DS. 

has  done  with  the  strong  years  of  his  man 
hood — the  prime  of  life-time,  when  tempta 
tions  were  the  fiercest,  when  the  M 
for  name  and  reputation  were  the  strong 
II     seems  to  torget  those  years  so,  as  he 
tells  the  story  of  his  boyhood. 

Why  is  it? 

It  is  of  a  garden — a  garden  where  fairest 
flowers  bloomed,  where  rarest  fruits  ripe 
where  in  peace  "  the  lion  and  the  lamb  dwelt 
together,"  that  we  read,  in  the  opening 
verses  of  the  story  in  The  Book.  It  is  of  a 
land  where  a  pure  river  flows,  a  river  clear 
as  crystal ;  where  "  the  tree  of  life  gr 
yielding  her  fruit  every  month,  and  le 
for  the  healing  of  the  nations ; "  where 
walk  "the  great  multitude,  clothed  with 
white  robes,  and  palms  in  their  hands,"  the 
closing  verses  of  the  Book's  story  tell. 
Thus  are  linked  in  our  thoughts  the  Earthly 
Eden  and  the  Heavenly  Paradise.  And,  is 
not  this  underlying  oneness  of  description 
and  likeness  between  the  first  home  of  man, 
and  the  last  home  of  man,  a  mystical  i 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  j§ 

of  the  heart  story  we  read  traced  on  the 
pages  of  memory,  which  turns  backward  to 
the  starting  place — childhood,  the  flower- 
blooming  time,  and  then  passes  on  to  tell  of 
the  "  peace  which  floweth  like  a  river " 
through  the  soul  that  walks  with  God ;  the 
soul  in  which  "  the  fruits  of  the  spirit "  have 
ripened,  because  of  the  shining  of  the  "  Sun 
of  righteousness,"  which  maketh  light  at 
eventime.  For  surely,  if  there  is  in  every 
dew-drop,  in  every  wayside  grass  blade,  a 
whisper  of  the  Lord,  we  may  find  in  every 
Bible  verse,  however  brief,  some  glowing 
word  interpreting  our  human  life. 

But  what  was  there  in  that  last  day  of 
Paul's  journey  to  make  him  remember  it  so 
well?  A  dreary  mist  was  over  everything 
in  the  morning,  which,  long  before  noon 
time,  had  become  a  pouring  rain ;  but. 
towards  sunset  it  cleared,  and  bright  gleame 
of  golden  sunshine  stole  in  broad  bands 
across  the  wood  road  through  which  Enoch 
and  Paul's  way  led. 

They  had  bade   good-bye   to  the  good- 


go  UPLAXDS  A\D  LOM'LAXDS. 

naturccl  driver  of  the  stage  coach,  in  which 
they  had  been  traveling  lor  the  last  two 
davs;  and  Paul  had  watched  it  rumbling 
along  over  the  muddy  turnpike  toward  the 

town  of  II ,  till  it  had  passed  quite  out 

of  sight.      Then,  he  joined   his   father,  who 
was  trying  to  persuade  one  of  the  half  d. 
slovenly-looking   men,  lounging  about  the 
wayside  tavern   and  toll   gate,  to  drive   him 
and  Paul  over  to  Tompkinsville. 

"It's  awful  wet,"  the  man  responded; 
"the  roads  will  be  powerful  heavy.  I  don't 
sec  how  I  can  do  it,  no  how ;"  and  he 
puffed  away  lazily  at  the  pipe  he  was  smok 
ing;  but  a  little  more  persuasion,  and  the 
promise  of  an  extra  shilling  or  two,  induced 
him  presently,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  to  hitch 
up  the  horse,"  a  poor,  ill-fed  animal,  with 
the  appearance  of  barely  sufficient  strength 
to  drag  along  the  rickety  wagon  and  blue 
chest,  which,  with  Enoch's  help,  was 
stowed  away  behind  the  one  seat,  on  which 
he,  with  Paul  on  his  knee,  and  the  driver — 
whom  the  men  called  "Jake" — sat.  They 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  gl 

drove  on  quietly  till  Paul  said,  looking  at 
the  sunshine: 

"  It  must  be  cloudless  now,  out  where 
/ou  can  see  up  to  the  sky." 

Enoch  smiled  at  the  words,  a  sad  smile  ; 
he  was  trying  so  hard  to  "  see  up,"  for  the 
boy's  sake  and  his  own,  and  yet  he  could 
not. 

"  What's  the  matter,  father,"  whispered 
?aul.  "  Don't  you  like  it  here  ?" 

Not  waiting  for  a  reply,  eagerly  he  ex 
claimed,  "  Hark  !  what's  that  ?"  And,  hold 
ing  his  father's  hand  tightly,  he  leaned  over 
the  side  of  the  wagon,  gazing  down  into 
the  ravine  below,  where,  through  the  hem 
lock  boughs,  he  caught  the  glimmer  of 
water,  and  heard  the  rippling,  lapping 
music  of  a  swift-flowing  stream,  plashing 
over  a  pebbly  bed.  The  sound  grew  louder 
every  minute.  And  again  Paul  asked : 

"  What  is  it  ?     It's  more  than  a  brook." 

"My  gracious!"  said  Jake,  "it's  nothin 
but  the  water-fall  ye  hears.     We  '11  come  to 
it  jist  a  bit  further  along.     Didn't  ye  nivei 


82  UPLANDS  AND  LOll'LA.VDS. 

hear  a  fall  afore  ?    They's  plenty  as  bees  in 
these  'er*  parts." 

A  steep  descent  in  the  road  prevented 
Paul's  answer. 

Then  came  a  sudden  turn,  and  it  was  be 
fore  them — the  swift  moving  water,  falling 
over  the  arched  rocks  above  in  a  thou 
broken  streams — silvery  ribbon-like  streams, 
and  in  showers  of  sparkling  drops,  whose 
tiny  foam -crested  wavelets  chased  one 
another  in  a  never-ending  chase,  till  they 
broke  on  the  rocks  below,  where  they 
lingered  not  a  moment,  before  pursuing 
their  onward  way;  some,  creeping  over 
the  dark  moss-covered  rocks,  which  1 
themselves  out  of  the  bed  of  the  stream  ; 
others,  dashing  along,  and  all  moving,  none 
still ;  for  even  the  deep  pools,  which  looked 
so  quiet,  where  the  over-branching  t: 
and  far  away  blue  of  the  sky  were  mirrored, 
changed  all  the  time;  for  into  them,  too, 
thread-like  streams  stole,  forcing  drop  by 
drop,  the  quiet  water  out  and  on  over  the 
lichen-covered  rocks. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  83 

"  It  don't  stay  still  anywhere  a  moment. 
Does  it,  father?"  said  Paul.  "Even  the 
littlest  drops  are  running  away  from  those 
coming,  all  the  time." 

"  No,"  replied  Enoch.  "  Water,  when  it 
has  anything  to  do,  don't  stay  still,  Paul." 

And  Enoch  began  to  talk  with  Jake,  about 
the  mill  at  Tompkinsville,  and  the  water- 
power  of  the  streams.  But  Paul  pondered 
over  his  father's  words  long  after  they  had 
started  on  their  way  again.  Something  in 
them  touched  the  child.  And  thus  it  hap 
pened,  the  water-fall,  and  the  foam-tossed 
drops,  never  were  forgotten  by  him  ;  and, 
when  in  after  years  he  looked  upon  many  a 
more  beautiful  cascade,  famed  in  picture 
and  in  song,  the  old  wonderment,  wakened 
that  day  when  his  father  said,  "  Water  never 
stands  still  when  it  does  anything,"  would 
come  up  in  his  heart,  causing  thoughts 
which  asked,  "  Why  must  it  go  on,  never 
pausing  to  rest,  never  asked  whether  it  be 
weary  or  not,  but  iust  forced  on  its  way,  as 
ife  forces  man  on?"  Other  thoughts  the 


84  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

memory  of  the  water  never  still,  ever  mov 
ing,  brought  to  Paul,  too,  til.  the  memorv 
became  a  tender,  beautiful  symbol  to  him 
of  what  he  wanted  his  own  life  to  be,  how 
ever  weary,  however  tired  he  might  be 
from  dashing  wavesancl  rocky  paths.  There 
came  another  thought,  also,  of  how  all  the 
drops  found  fixed  channels  already  traced 
for  them  — "  paths  prepared,  by  which  at 
some  appointed  rate  of  journey,  they  must 
ever  more  descend,  sometimes  slow  and' 
sometimes  swift,  but  never  pausing ;  the 
daily  portion  of  the  earth  they  have  to 
glide  over  marked  for  them  at  each  succes 
sive  sunrise — the  place  which  has  know  n 
them  knowing  them  no  more,  and  the 
gateways  of  guarding  mountains  opened 
for  them  in  cleft  and  chasm,  none  let 
ting  them  in  their  pilgrimage ;  and,  from 
far  off,  the  great  heart  of  the  sea  call 
ing  them  to  itself!  '  Deep  calleth  unto 
deep.' " 

But  Paul  did  not  know  all  this,  till,  with 
torn    sails,    with     wave -broken    helm,    he 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS,  85 

anchored  within  the  haven  where  he 
learned : 

"  To  feel,  although  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud  that  spreads  above, 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love  "  — 

earned  to  know  that  only  our  earth  lan 
guage  makes  contradictions — stumbling 
blindly  over  freedom  of  will  and  predestined 
counsels  of  God — learned  to  know  that  the 
heavenly  language  illumines  with  a  sun 
beam,  born  of  trust,  that  touch-word  "for" 
of  the  mystery  verse,  "  Work  out  your  own 
salvatioM,"  for,  "  it  is  God  thai  vyorketh  in 
you/ 


THE  last  few  miles  of  their  way  led 
through  the  open  country ;  but  the 
evening  shadows  had  deepened  before  t 
reached  it,  and  Paul  could  see  but  a  short 
distance  beyond  the  wagon,  and  that  not 
for  long.  So,  he  turned  his  gaze  upward 
l.o  the  sky,  saying  to  Enoch  : 

"  New  stars  are  coming  out  all  the  time, 
father." 

It  was  very  still ;  the  hush  of  the  evening 
hour  only  broken  by  the  monotonous  chirp 
of  the  crickets,  blended  in  with  the  lively, 
self-complacent  notes  of  the  little  katydids 
and  katy-did-n'ts,  which  \\civ  hiiKlcn  away 
under  the  green  leaves. 

A  fresh,  spicy  odor  filled  the  air,  aj 
though  the  grass  and  flowers,  the  sweet 
fern  and  penny-royal  beds  were  all  sending 

(86) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  g; 

up  the  concealed  treasure  of  their  fragrance 
as  an  incense  to  the  stars. 

Dancing  fire-flies  flitted  in  and  out  from 
the  under-brush  and  tangled  vines  that 
edged  the  roadway. 

It  was  an  hour  to  waken  dreams,  even  in 
the  most  prosaic  mind  ;  and,  to  a  child  sensi 
tive  to  the  influences  of  Nature  as  Paul  was, 
laden  with  emotions  which  thrilled  his  heart 
with  feelings  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  pain. 

Enoch  had  not  spoken  except  in  mono 
syllables,  since  they  left  the  water-fall ;  and 
Jake,  too,  was  quiet,  with  the  exception  of 
an  occasional  "  Gee  up,"  to  his  horse. 

So,  they  drove  on  for  an  hour  or  more, 
Paul  leaning  his  head  against  his  father's 
shoulder,  and  earnestly  watching  the  stars. 
Suddenly  he  exclaimed.  "  Father,  what  do 
they  say  ?  Is  it  them  talking  ?  " 

And  the  boy  pointed  up,  and  then  bent 
his  head  a  little  to  one  side,  as  though  to 
catch  more  distinctly  the  insect  hum  which 
vibrated  in  the  air,  and  which  his  childish 
fancy  associated  with  the  stars. 


88  UPLANDS  AXD  DS. 

"Haik!"  he  said  a^ain,  pointing  to  tha 
sky,  "  they  are  twinkling  out  loud." 

"No,  n«>,  Paul,"  replied  his  lather,  "stars 
make  no  sound.  It  is  the  crickets  you 
hear." 

"They  be  awful  wide  awake  and  brisk, 
to-night,"  chimed  in  Jake. 

"What  arc  stars,  anyway?"  continued 
the  boy. 

'•Yes,  what  be  they?"  responded  Jake. 
"That's  jist  what    I'd  like  to  know  rncsclf. 
They  be  the  pertest,  shininest  little  th 
ever  I  seed — looking  down  on  a  feller  when 
it's  a  clear  night,  and  making  him  fee 
sort  of  'shamed,  when  he  ain't  done  notliin' 
so  far  out  o'   the  way.     Some  folks  reckon 
they  be  tother  worlds  like  ourn ;  but,  'cord 
ing  to  my  calkelations,  they  be  mighty  more 
like  the  eyes  of  them  that's  dead,  a  lookin' 
down  on  us  living  folks.     Do  ye  see  that 
ar  little  un  over  yender?  (and  Jake  pointed 
up.)     It's  got  jist  the  very  look  my  sister 
Marthey  Jane  hail   the  night  she  was  t 
off.    As  likely  a  girl  as  ever  ye  see,  Marthey 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS,  g£ 

Jane  was.  And  that  ar  big  star,  a  sailin 
along  so  steady-like  'and  shining,  it's  the 
very  way  our  old  parson  used  to  look — 
straight  into  us  fellers.  He  was  took — the 
Parson  was — all  on  a  sudden,  last  winter,  of 
rheumatis  in  the  heart." 

Paul  was  all  wonderment.  Did  Jake 
really  know?  Was  it  true  that  the  stars 
were  the  eyes  of  those  gone  "  up  to  the 
sky  "  looking  down  ?  and  was  that  what  the 
farmer's  wife  had  meant,  when  she  said, 
"  Like  enough  yer  Ma  sees  ye  all  the  time  ?" 

His  mother  had  once  told  him  that  the 
stars  were  shining  all  day,  just  as  at  night, 
only  the  bright  sunlight  hid  them.  So  he 
thought  to  himself,  mother  can  see  me  all 
the  time.  "  'Cause  I  know  when  the  clouds 
cover  the  sky,  she'll  ask  God  to  make  a 
crack  in  them  for  her  to  look  through." 

"  Oh,  father,"  he  asked  in  a  soft  voice,  "  is 
one  mother,  and  can  she  see  us  now  ?  I 
like  it  so — what  the  man  says.  Did  God 
tell  it  to  him  ?" 

Enoch  was  puzzled.     He  "  liked  it,"  too 
8* 


go  LT1  DS. 

as  the  boy  said — the  thought  that  Faith's 
r  on  him  and   little   Paul.     Ami 
\vas  it  true  ? 

\VhiK:  Jake  and  Paul  were  talking,  Knoch 
tried  lo  remember  the  Bible  verses  he  had 
';,  thinking,  perhaps,  in  them   he   could 
find  the  solution  of  Paul's  question.     He  re 
collected  one  about  "  shining  as 
then  he  thought  of  the  verse,  "  Ye  are  com 
passed  about  with  a  great  cloud  of  witn 
cs."     Why  might  the  witnesses  not  be  the 
stars?     He  knew  the  Bible  said  of  tl, 
gone  to  heaven,  they  were  "a  multitude, 
whom  no  man  could   number."      And    he 
lifted  his  eyes  up  to  the  numberless  stat 
the  upper  world,  while  there  stole  into  his 
heart  a  great  peace  that  had  not  been  there 
since  Faith  left  him.     For  he  thought,  "  I 
won't  feel  so  lonely  if  I  can  think  she  knows 
and   sees."     And  then,   a  smile  lit  up  his 
face  as  he  looked  at  Jake's  slouching  figure, 
thinking,  Who  ever  would  have  guessed  that 
man  would  have  given  me  comfort? 

But  that  last  thought  of  Enoch's  v 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS,  g\ 

mistake ;  for  it  was  not  the  man,  who  had 
given  him  comfort,  but  the  Spirit  that  had 
spoken  through  the  man. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  out 
skirts  of  the  rambling  village.  Driving  up 
through  the  long  narrow  street  they  stopped 
at  what  seemed  to  Paul  a  house,  big  as  a 
"meeting  house,"  while  Jake  said, 

"  This  be  the  place,  I  reckon,  ye's  a  want 
ing." 

An  hour  later,  Paul  was  sleeping  quietly. 
The  journey  ended — for,  "This  is  really 
Tompkinsville,"  his  father  had  told  him,  in 
reply  to  his  whispered  question,  "  Is  this 
the  place,  father?" 

A  dreamless  sleep  was  the  boy's,  which 
was  well,  for  it  set  a  seal  on  the  memories 
of  his  by- gone  life,  leaving  ever  clear  and 
well-defined  the  recollection  of  his  care-free 
childhood,  which  ended  that  night;  leaving, 
too,  the  vivid  impression  that  the  flowers, 
the  bird  songs,  the  glad  sunlight,  the  gentle 
starbeams,  the  sweet  fragrance  of  hay-fields 
and  way-side  herbs,  were  all  loving  smiles 


r\l  UP  I  A  \V 

'}" 

of  the  Lord,  his  Ileavcnlv  Fatlu-r,  nf  whom 
his  mother  had  told  him  in  the  tender  twi 
light  hours,  when  they  had  sat  together  on 
the  door-step  of  the  cottage  home,  saying, 

Always  remember,  Paul,  'God  is  lo\ 
Thus  the  child's  heart  recognized,  and  the 
Father  set  His  seal  upon  the  truth,  which 
we  may  all  for  the  seeking  possess,  "  that 
vocal  speech  is  not  the  only  language,  the 
lighting  up  of  the  face  not  the  only  smile, 
the  pressure  of  an  arm  of  flesh  not  the  only 
embracing;  for  the  bright-faced  sky,  the 
smiling  earth,  scented,  and  singing,  and  fes 
tive  spring  and  summer,  innumerable  an 
thems  and  poetries  of  delightful  nature  also 
arc  God's  tender  looks,  and  words,  and 
sacred  kisses  to  us." 

And  this  knowledge,  though  it  kept  hid 
den  away  for  years  in  Paul's  soul,  proved 
the  priceless  legacy  left  him  by  his  mother, 
— Faith, — whom  Enoch  called  "  My  Little 
Snow-flake." 


CHAPTER    SECOND, 


YOUTH. 


"  Nought 

In  life  without  much  toil  is  bought. 
In  this  world  of  ours, 

The  path  to  what  we  want  ne'er  runs  on  flowers." 

— HORACE 


"  Consider  it 

(This  outer  world  we  tread  on)  as  a  harp, — 
A  gracious  instrument  on  whose  fair  strings 
We  learn  those  airs  we  shall  be  set  to  play 
When  mortal  hours  are  ended.    Let  the  wings, 
Man,  of  thy  spirit  move  on  it  as  wind, 
And  draw  forth  melody.    Why  should'st  thou  yet 
Lie  grovelling?     More  is  won  than  e'er  was  lost : 
Inherit.     Let  thy  day  be  to  thy  night 
A  teller  of  good  tidings.     Let  thy  praise 
Go  up  as  birds  go  up  that,  when  they  wake. 
Shake  off  the  dew  and  soar. 

So  take  Joy  home, 

And  make  a  place  in  thy  great  heart  for  her, 
And  give  her  time  to  grow,  and  cherish  her; 
Then  will  she  come,  and  oft  will  sing  to  thee, 
When  thou  art  working  in  the  furrows ;  ay, 
Or  weeding  in  the  sacred  hour  of  dawn. 
It  is  a  comely  fashion  to  be  glad,— 
Joy  is  the  grace  we  say  to  God. 

Art  tired  ? 

There  is  a  rest  remaining.     Hast  thou  sinned  ? 
There  is  a  Sacrifice.    Lift  up  thy  head  , 
The  lovely  world,  and  the  over-world  alike. 
Ring  with  a  song  eterne,  a  happy  rede, 
'  Tky  Father  Loves  Thee.,'  " 

— JKAN  INGELOW, 


(94) 


SCARCELY  a  week  had  gone  by  after 
Enoch  and  Paul  reached  Tompkins- 
ville,  before  they  were  fully  started  in  the 
new  life,  Enoch  finding  work  at  once  in  the 
largest  of  the  many  mills,  which  lined  for 
miles  the  banks  of  the  creek  that  ran  through 
the  town  ;  while  Paul  was  sent  immediately 
to  the  village  school,  where  he  soon  won 
nis  way  into  the  heart  of  the  teacher,  and 
the  good-will  of  the  scholars. 

"  Though  he  ain't  a  bit  like  most  boys," 
said  the  squire's  son — the  curly  -  headed 
urchin,  who  ruled  the  little  world  of  school 
likes  and  dislikes. 

But,  by  the  time  Paul  was  twelve  years 
old,  he  had  outstripped  the  limited  knowl 
edge  of  the  pale-faced  teacher,  who  year 
after  year,  went  over  the  same  pages  of 

(95) 


Q6  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS 

spelling  and  reading,  geography  and  cipher 
ing,  and  whose  teaching  abruptly  ceased, 
when  the  children  under  her  care  had 
conquered  the  mysteries  of  multiplication, 
long  division,  three-syllable  words,  and  State 
bounding. 

"  Going  to  school  to  her,  father,"  said 
Paul,  "  seems  like  walking  a  path  in  the 
woods,  where  you  come  out  suddenly  on  a 
precipice,  and  find  you  cannot  go  any 
further." 

And  Enoch  decided  that  his  boy  must 
leave  the  village  school. 

"  What  '11  ye  do  with  him  now?"  ask-j'l 
Mrs.  Jenkins,  the  somewhat  rough-voiced 
and  harsh-tempered  woman,  with  whom 
many  of  the  "  mill-hands"  boarded,  and 
among  them  Enoch  and  Paul. 

"  Put  him  into  the  mill,  I  reckon  ;  thar's 
nothin'  like  settin'  children  to  it  young  ;  and 
what  does  he  want  with  more  larnin'  than 
he  's  got  already  ?  " 

But  Enoch  did  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Jen. 
kins,  and  he  answered. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  gj 

"  No,  Paul  will  go  to  the  Academy  now.' 

"  To  the  Academy  !  "  responded  the  wo 
man.  "  Who  ever  heerd  the  like  o'  that  ?  A 
boy  whose  father's  nothin'  but  a  mill-hand 
a-going  to  the  Academy,  along  with  Lawyer 
Blake's  sons,  Squire  Ludlow's  girls,  and  all 
the  iristocrats  !  Well,  I  do  declare  !  " 

Telling  it  over  in  the  kitchen,  she  added, 
"  If  Enoch  Foster's  ambition  for  that  boy  of 
his'n  don't  beat  all  ever  I  see." 

Only  a  month  later  Paul's  name  was 
entered  among  the  new  pupils  who  were  to 
begin  the  fall  term  at  the  Academy,  where 
he  had  attended  for  the  three  years  preced- 
ing  the  time  of  which  we  now  write.  The 
tall  slim  lad  he  had  become  during  those 
years  was  very  unlike  the  eager  question- 
asking  boy  who  had  driven  over  the  hills 
with  old  Phil  five  summer-times  before. 
Yet  to  Enoch  he  seemed  a  child,  even 
though  he  had  altered  so  greatly  in  outward 
appearance,  and  in  heart,  too,  since  then; 
for  on  Paul's  face  was  plainly  written  that 
he  had  indeed  "  looked  over  the  hill "  of 
9 


1)8  UPLANDS  .1  :  '.'DS 

childhood,  and  found  on  "the  other  side 
not  only   fair,  beautiful  pictures,  but  t 
dreary  pictures  too.      Still   those   mystics 
tracings,  by  which  the  soul  purity 

of  thought  on  brow, — truth  of  heart  in  : 
less    wide -open     look,    revealed,    that,    if 
"  shades  of  the  prison-house  "  had  begun  to 
close 

"  upon  the  growing  boy, 
He  still  beheld  the  light,  and  whence  it  flowed." 

Enoch  had  sheltered  Paul  in  every 
he  could  from  the  evil  so  plentiful  in 
Tompkinsville;  but  he  was  a  bright  lad, 
with  a  keen  yearning  for  knowledge,  though 
n  more  to  listening  than  to  talking. 
IK-  attracted,  too,  much  attention  from  his 
skill  in  picture-making,  which  had  de\  el 
with  every  passing  year.  Delicate  sketches 
of  way-side  flowers,  plumcy  fern  tufts,  or 
moss -covered  rocks,  he  was  constantly 
drawing  on  odd  scraps  of  paper  and  blank 
pages  in  his  school-books.  He  would  out 
line,  too,  in  bold  charcoal  strokes  on  the 
high  unpaintcd  fence  that  enclosed  the  mill- 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  99 

yard,  sketches  of  trees,  hills,  and  the  banks 
of  the  creek ;  or,  in  miniature  size,  he  would 
duplicate  the  new  factory,  gone  up  at  the  end 
of  the  village.  This  last  achievement  of  his 
irt  the  beholders  thought  most  wonderful. 

"  How  do  you  ever  make  it  small,  and 
yet  the  very  same  looking  thing  as  the  big 
factory  ?  "  they  were  wont  to  ask  ;  and  Paul 
could  not  explain,  for  he  was  unlearned  yet 
in  the  secret  of"  how  he  did  it." 

The  men  took  great  satisfaction  in  these 
rude  efforts  of  Paul's ;  there  was  a  certain 
rough  loyalty  of  feeling  in  their  hearts  to 
wards  the  motherless  boy,  as  though  in  a 
sort  of  way  he  belonged  to  them  all;  and 
every  new  prize  he  won  at  the  Academy 
they  heralded  with  a  clanship  exultancy 
over  the  "  uptown  "  folks,  whom  "  our  boy 
has  beat  again,"  as  they  said.  A  warm  wel 
come  always  awaited  him  in  the  mill-yard 
during  the  long  twilight  of  the  summei 
da^s ;  and  in  winter  evenings,  the  chair  near 
est  to  the  blazing  wood-fire  in  Mrs.  Jenkins 
front  room  was  always  called  "  little  Paul's. 


Jo0  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

Paul's  associates  at  these  times  \verc 
among  the  most  respectable  of  the  mil! 
workers;  indeed,  the  lad's  innate  refinement 
of  nature  prevented  his  mingling  with  the 
coarse  and  vulgar ;  thus  he  escaped  many 
sullying  influences,  but  he  did  not  pass  un 
scathed  through  the  ordeal  of  "  dark  say 
ings,"  sceptical  queries  as  to  the  truth  and 
existence  of  God  as  a  Father  of  Love,  which 
formed  so  often  the  topic  discussed  by  those 
dust-begrimed  men,  whose  life-way  led  over 
such  rough,  toilsome  roads.  But  deep  down 
in  Paul's  heart  ever  stayed  the  recollection 
of  his  mother's  words,  "  Always  remember, 
•  God  is  love.'  " 

Yet,  spite  these  tender  memories,  spite 
the  firm  trust  of  his  father  in  this  same 
loving  God,  the  boy  would  ask, 

"  Why  is  it,  if  He  loves,  that  He  let' 
people  suffer  so?" 

And  the  only  answer  Enoch  could  give 
was  tne  old  reply  (known  to  us  all,  though 
we  frame  it  in  different  words), 

"  Don't  think  about  it  too  much,  Paul ; 


UPLANDS  ANJ   ^OWLANDS.  IQ\ 

jfust  do  the  work  the  Lord  sends,  and  trust 
Him ;  lor  faith  in  Him,  and  work  for  Him; 
boy,  is  about  all  that  brings  lasting  peace ; 
and,  if  you  stop  to  think  of  other  folks'  lives, 
you  '11  spend  pretty  much  all  your  time  a 
smiling  or  a  weeping  at  the  things  you  see, 
and  which  you  never  can  understand,  unless 
you  believe  in  God  :  then  a  something 
comes,  a  settling  the  questions  you  have 
left  \vith  Him.  I  cannot  explain  it  to  you," 
Enoch  sometimes  added,  "  but  all  you  have 
to  do  about  it,  is  just  to  love  and  obey  the 
Lord  Christ,  just  to  do  right,  and  you  '11 
know  what  I  mean." 

After  one  of  those  quiet  talks  with  his 
father,  Paul  would  feel  satisfied  for  a  week 
or  two,  giving  no  heed  to  the  slighting 
words  he  now  and  then  heard  spoken  of  the 
Bible  story. 

But  Tompkinsville  was  a  growing  place, 
and  Paul,  though  he  was  but  one,  a  compa 
ratively  little  one,  among  the  grown  men  of 
the  town,  felt,  just  as  the  tiny  wavelet  feels, 
.he  incoming  and  outgoing  tide,  rolling  the 


IO2  UP!  /.i>  1 1'/..!. YDS 

great  waves  on  toward  some  quiet  haven,  or 
v  toward  the  rapid  river  flowing  into 
the  broad  ocean  ;  and  he,  like  every  member 
of  its  population,  had  to  pay  the  penally  «>f 
all  growth — the  penalty  that  all  things  in 
the  natural  and  spiritual  world  must  pay,  if 
they  would  be  !  Is  it  too  costly  a  price  ? 

The  tender  grass-blades,  pushing  their 
u.iy  up  through  the  heavy  earth  clods  in 
early  spring,  cover  the  very  clods  with  soft 
green  before  the  summer  comes,  and  mur 
mur  "  No." 

The  tired  student  with  aching  brain,  who 
through  sleepless  nights  has  climbed  s 
thought-height,  whispers  "  No." 

The  undaunted  artist,  who  day  after  day 
has  struggled  for  mastery  in  the  mystery  of 
colors,  for  vision  touch  and  life-like  form, 
with  weary  hand  and  weary  rye  uplitts  the 
magic  brush  to  the  heaven  from  which  c 
comes,  and  answers  "  No." 

The  humble  imitator  of  Christ,  who,  like 
Him.  would  be  a  "son  of  consolation,  who 
jvould  partake  of  the  priestly  gilt  of  sym 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  103 

pathy,"  learned  in  walking  close  after  Him, 
the  "  Man  of  Sorrows,"  and  whose  crown  of 
victory  is  a  thorn  crown,  sings,  in  exultant 
song,  "  No." 

Great  interest  the  mill  workers,  who  had 
been  for  years  employed  in  the  red  painted, 
low  wooden  buildings  on  the  Creek  bank, 
felt  in  the  brick  factory  with  its  Tower  of 
Babel  chimney,  that  lifted  its  smoking  mouth 
up  towards  the  peaceful  sky,  "  which  is  just 
as  blue,"  Paul  said,  "as  if  all  that  smoke  did 
not  go  up." 

The  building  of  this  factory,  and  the  com 
ing  of  the  operatives  employed  in  it,  had 
changed  Tompkinsville  from  a  quiet  village 
into  a  bustling  town  ;  and  the  once  almost 
empty  streets  were  now  thronged  with  a 
motley  crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children. 
The  maple  grove,  where  the  Academy  boys 
and  girls  had  hunted  in  early  spring,  for  the 
first  anemones  and  violets,  where  they  had 
found  in  autumn  the  brightest  leaves,  where 
the  school  children  had  been  wont  to  catch 
in  their  little  shining  dinner  pails  the  gurg- 


104  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

ting  sap  which  they  called  "good,"  even 
\vhen  their  pretty  mouths  had  puckered  at 
the  sharp  taste;  and  where,  on  a  Fourth  of 
July,  or  occasional  holiday,  the  tired  mill 
hands  had  celebrated  some  outdoor  festival, 
had  been  ruthlessly  "cut  down"  to  make 
way  for  the  line  of  ungainly  tenement 
houses,  in  which  the  factory  people  lived. 

And  at  morning,  noon,  and  sunset,  break 
ing  harshly  the  quiet  of  the  country,  sounded 
the  clang  of  the  great  bell,  which  called  the 
laborers  to  and  from  work.  A  loud  dis 
cordant  note  it  rang,  which  quite  drowned 
the  fainter  peals  from  the  belfries  of  the 
mccting-house  and  Methodfst  chapel. 

Among  the  new  comers  were  men  from 
many  countries,  lands  beyond  the  sea ;  and 
verily,  if  the  high  chimney  looked  like  a 
Babel  tower,  the  languages  they  spoke,  the 
faiths  they  clung  to,  made,  indeed,  a  con 
fusion  of  tongues.  For,  of  the  Pentecostal 
ith  of  "  peace  and  good-will,"  for  which 
the  little  band  of  men,  who  met  together  on 
a  \Vednesday  and  Saturday  night,  prayed, 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  IOi; 

they  had  to  say,  yet,  "  It  bloweth  where  it 
listeth." 

"  But  it  will  come,"  said  Enoch  to  Paul, 
one  cloudy  autumn  night,  as  returning  from 
"  meeting,"  they  passed  through  the  noisy 
street  where  men  and  boys  were  quarreling, 
dogs  barking,  and  sad-faced  women  bar 
gaining  for  the  scanty  measure  of  meal,  or 
musty  flitch  of  bacon,  which  must  make  the 
breakfast  and  dinner  on  the  morrow,  not 
only  for  themselves,  but  for  many  a  hungry 
child  beside. 

"  Yes,"  Enoch  continued  (though  he 
sighed  wearily  as  he  looked  about  him),  "  it 
will  come,  even  though  we  have  to  watch 
and  wait  for  it,  as  watchmen  wait  for  the 
dawn  in  the  long  nights  of  winter.  '  Seek 
the  Lord  till  He  comes  and  rains  righteous 
ness  upon  you,'  that  is  the  promise,  Paul." 

These  words  Enoch  uttered  just  as  they 
entered  Mrs.  Jenkins'  door ;  at  the  same 
time,  a  man's  voice  repeated  loudly,  the 
lines : 

"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be." 


106  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

He   was  in  the  front  room,  and   the  door 
stood  ajar. 

It  was  one  of  the  new  operatives  at  the 
factory — a  sort  of  overseer,  and  a  man  not 
unlearned  in  books. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  in,  Paul,"  said  his  father, 
as  the  lad  turned  toward  the  half-open  door, 
adding,  "  It  will  do  you  no  good  to  hearken 
to  what  he  has  to  say." 

Paul  hesitated.  He  was  no  longer  a 
child.  Why  should  his  father  restrain  him  ? 
What  harm  could  it  do  for  him  to  listen  to 
the  man's  conversation  for  an  hour?  And, 
standing  there,  for  a  minute  his  heart  re 
belled  against  his  father ;  for  a  minute  he 
was  tempted  to  disobey.  And  his  father 
did  not  turn  back  to  call  to  him  "Co 
so  he  stood  irresolute.  Perhaps  it  was 
written  on  his  face ;  for  Paul  had  a  tell-tale 
face,  and  he  was  standing  in  the  full  li:;lit 
of  the  hall  lamp,  just  where  the  man  who 
was  talking  could  see  him. 

"  What  arc  you  standing  outside  for, 
lad  ?"  he  called.  "  Come  in.  Do  you 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


107 


think  we  are  eating  forbidden  fruit  from  the 
'tree  of  knowledge/  that  you  hesitate  so? 
\rou  have  just  come,  if  I  mistake  not,  from 
ithe  meeting,  where  you  had  a  bite  of  the 
'  Good.'  Are  you  afraid  to  nibble  at  the 
Evil, — hey  ?" 

The  man's  words  roused  Paul.  Yet,  he 
lingered  still  irresolute,  and  he  did  not 
know  at  that  time  the  decision  of  the  next 
few  minutes  would  give  coloring  to  all  the 
after  years  of  his  life.  But,  before  the  next 
day's  sun  had  set  he  knew  that  it  had 
Again,  another  voice  sounded,  saying,  more 
gently,  "  Come  in,  Paul ;  we  are  talking  of 
the  debate  the  factory  folks  are  going  to 
have  with  us  mill-hands.  We've  about  de 
cided  to  take  for  our  subject,  '  Is  there  a 
heaven  and  a  hell  ?'  The  factory  folks  take 
the  negative,  and  we  go  in  for  the  other 
side." 

Paul  listened  eagerly.  He  pushed  the 
door  w'de  open.  He  went  a  step  or  two 
into  the  room,  where  a  crowd  of  men  and 
lads  were  assembled  talking  and  smoking. 


1OS  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS, 

The  smoke  is  awful  thick/'  said  a  man. 
1  Raise  the  window,  I  say,  as  you  come 
along,  Paul." 

The  boy  turned  to  do  as  bid.  Leaning 
out  for  a  minute — for  his  re  halt- 

blinded  by  the  smoke — looking  up,  far  up 
above  the  tall  chimney,  he  saw  a  little  star 
shining  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds  ;  and, 
though  they  had  been  forgotten  for  \v< 
he  seemed  distinctly  to  hear  the  words  of 
the  old  farmer's  wife  saying  to  him,  "  Like 
enough  yer  Ma  sees  ye  all  the  time."  lie 
seemed  to  be  riding  through  a  dark  night, 
as  he  rode  that  long  ago  night,  leaning  his 
head  against  his  father's  shoulder,  while  he 
looked  up  at  the  "  bright-eyed  twinkl< 
which  Jake  had  said,  "seemed  jist  like 
them  that  was  dead,  a  looking  down." 

Quickly — not  waiting  to  reply  to  the  query, 
"  Where  are  you.going,  Paul?" — he  left  the 
room,  running  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a 
time.  Me  did  not  pause  to  ask  why  he  had 
turned  from  the  temptation  winch,  only  a 
few  minutes  before,  seemed  so  alluring 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS 

And,  if  he  had  asked  himself,  perhaps  he 
could  not  have  told.  But,  if  "  up  there " 
they  know  what  goes  on  down  below,  Faith 
was  glad  that  night,  for  she  knew  the 
prayer,  "  Lord,  keep  him  from  evil,"  offered 
years  before,  for  her  baby  boy,  was  answered 
that  hour.  And  why  should  we  not  think 
they  know  ?  when  the  sacred  page  tells  us, 
"  There  is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels 
of  God  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth." 

Paul  and  his  father  talked  late.  The  boy 
frankly  told  of  the  half  disobedience  of 
action ;  the  real  disobedience  of  heart. 
And  Enoch  seemed  suddenly  to  realize  that 
the  lad  was  no  longer  a  child,  and  his  re 
plies  to  Paul's  confessions  of  much  wrong 
doing  and  thinking  during  the  past  months, 
were  in  words  such  as  a  man  uses  to  a  man, 
whom  he  meets  on  the  level  of  recognized 
manhood.  And  yet,  they  were  interwoven 
with  fatherly  words  of  counsel  and  tender 
encouragement,  which  Paul  never  forgot. 

"You  will  be  sixteen  to-morrow,"  Enoch 
said  presently.  "  Did  you  remember  it, 
10 


1 10  UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS. 

Paul  ?"  And  then,  father  and  son  turned 
the  leaves  of  the  old  Bible  to  the  family 
record  page,  where  Paul's  birth  date  was 
written,  beneath  the  names  of  his  father  and 
mother.  And,  while  Paul  looked  at  it, 
Enoch's  eye  wandered  on  till  it  rested  on 
fhe  opposite  page.  He  remembered  so  well 
the  hour  when  he  wrote  the  names  traced 
there — the  hour  when  Faith  came  to  his 
home  a  bride.  After  that — sitting  together 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  solitary  tallow  candle 
which  lit  the  room — he  told  Paul  much  of 
his  early  life,  much  of  his  mother,  that  the 
boy  had  forgotten.  They  talked  long 
earnestly ;  so  long,  that  the  candle  had 
burned  down  into  the  socket,  where  it 
flickered  and  flared  like  some  suffering 
thing  that  did  not  want  to  go  out,  before 
Enoch  turned  to  another  page,  where 
Faith's  name  was  written  alone — the  page, 
waiting  for  the  names  of  father  and  child, 
before  the  family  record  would  be  com 
plete. 

As  they  looked,  the  candle  flared  again 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  \  \ 

and  Enoch  bent  down  and  shielded  it  with 
one  hand  from  the  night  wind,  which  came 
in  through  the  open  window,  while  with 
the  other  hand  he  turned  the  Bible  leaves 
over  to  the  oft  -  read  chapter  in  John's 
Epistle,  saying : 

"  See,  Paul,  here  is  the  mark  of  your  little 
fingers  where  you  used  to  read  to  your 
mother  and  me  of  a  Sunday,  long  ago." 

And  Paul  saw  it — the  soiled  mark  on  the 
white  margin  of  the  leaf,  just  opposite  the 
verse,  "  God  is  love."  And  then  the  can 
dle  flickered  for  a  moment  and  went  out, 
and  the  room  was  dark. 

"  But  we  can  find  our  way,  I  guess,"  said 
Enoch,  as  he  groped  toward  the  corner  of 
the  room  where  the  bedstead  stood ;  Paul 
following  him. 


II. 


r  I  THEY  slept  late  the  next  morning;  so 
•JU  late,  there  was  barely  time  for  the 
chapter  and  prayer  which  it  was  Kno 
wont  to  read  and  offer,  before  going  to 
work,  when  the  ringing  of  the  factory  bell 
warned  him  it  was  full  time  he  should  st.irt 
for  the  mill.  Paul  had  more  time,  and  after 
breakfast  he  went  up  into  their  little  room 
again,  busying  himself,  not  in  studying  his 
lessons,  but  in  rummaging  among  the  few 
treasures  which  still  were  kept  in  the  blue 
chest. 

He  was  looking  for  the  old  slate  from 
which  the  crooked  lines  his  little  hands  had 
traced  had  never  been  rubbed  off".  The 
youth's  heart  was  tender,  from  the  making 
of  "good  resolutions," and  the  recent  talk 
with  his  father,  which  had  woke  up  so  many 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS.  \  \  3 

«p 

half-forgotten  memories.  "  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  to  please  father  and  make 
him  more  comfortable,"  he  said  to  himself. 
And  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  notice 
how  cheerless  their  room  was — how  unlike 
the  cottage  home.  "  And  it  is  all  because 
he  spends  everything  to  give  me  an  educa 
tion,"  Paul  thought,  as  he  hung  up  his 
father's  worn  coat,  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  peg  in  the  closet,  to  make  room  for  the 
lid  of  the  open  chest.  It  was  his  father's 
Sunday  coat ;  yet,  it  was  threadbare  at 
elbow  and  wrist. 

Almost  sadly  Paul  turned  away,  going 
down  stairs  and  through  the  hall  so  slowly, 
so  unlike  himself,  that  Mrs.  Jenkins,  whom 
he  met  busy  with  broom  and  duster,  asked, 

"  What's  happened  to  ye,  Paul,  ain't  ye 
well?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  well  enough,"  he  replied,  and 
quickened  his  step. 

It  was  a  dreary  morning,  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  trees,  sending  down 
with  every  fresh  gust  showers  of  yellow 
10* 


I  1 4  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

•s  —  twisting  them  about,  the  restless 
rustling  things,  in  little  eddies,  huddling 
them  in  door  steps,  corners,  and  nooks. 
The  waters  of  the  creek  were  dark  and 
troubled,  and  the  fall  just  beyond  the  mill 
dam  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  its 
sweet  summer  time  song — it  leapt  over  the 
rocks  with  so  sullen  a  roar,  as  though  re 
sponding  to  the  moaning  wind. 

At  the  Academy  they  had  kindled  a  fire 
in  the  old  stove,  round  which  Paul  found 
a  group  of  youths  and  maidens  gathered, 
who  called  to  him  as  he  entered,  "  Come, 
join  us." 

But,  he  could  not  tell  why,  he  had  no 
heart  for  fun  that  morning ;  so,  going 
straight  towards  his  desk,  he  shook  his  head, 
saying,  "  I've  some  work  to  do  before  the 
bell  rings."  And  yet  he  sat  listlessly 
watching  the  others  for  full  five  minutes. 

A  little  later  the  master  came,  a  young 
man  who  had  graduated  only  a  few  years 
before   from   an  Eastern  college,  and   w 
ooked   scarcely   older    than    many  of 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  \  5 

pupils.  Then  the  bell  rang,  and  was  fol 
lowed  by  the  opening  exercises — a  hastily 
read  chapter  and  a  brief  prayer ;  and  then 
the  hum  of  recitations  going  on  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  the  smothered  whispers  of 
sunny-faced  brown-eyed  girls,  were  blended 
in  with  the  low  mutterings  of  slow  learners, 
who  thought  by  sound  to  conquer  the  puz 
zling  verb  or  bewildering  sum. 

This  must  have  gone  on  for  an  hour  or 
more,  for  the  echo  of  the  "  town  clock," 
striking  ten,  had  long  ago  died  away,  when 
there  came  a  sharp  rap  at  the  school-room 
door. 

Paul  started  to  his  feet,  though  it  was  not 
like  him  to  be  nervous,  and  before  any  one 
had  time  to  reply  to  the  new  comer's  ques 
tion,  "  Is  Paul  Foster  here?"  he  had  sprung 
over  his  desk,  and  stood  with  white  face 
before  the  man,  eagerly  saying,  "  Quick, 
tell  me  quick,  is  father  hurt?"  It  was  over 
in  five  minutes, — the  excitement  in  the 
school-room ;  and  Paul  had  gone,  never 
waiting  to  hear  the  end  of  the  little  speech 


UPLANDS  AND  LO\\'I..l.\'DS. 

the  rough  man  had  conned  over  and  over 
on  his  way  from  the  mill,  thinking  how  he 
could  "  break  the  news  casy-likc  to  the 
lad." 

"  Don't  be  scared,"  he  had  said  ;  "as 
folding  down  at  the  new  building  going  up 
at  the  mill  gave  way.  and  ycr  father — he 
just  a-passing  under  —  and,  ye  sec  — 
well  —  its  kind  o*  knocked  the  breath  out 
of  him  ;  but  he  '11  be  all  right  agin,  I  reckon  , 
don't  be  scared." 

These  last  words  were  spoken  to  the  mas 
ter  and  frightened  scholars,  and  then  with 
an  awkward  bow,  the  speaker  hastened 
down  the  street  after  Paul's  vanishing  figure. 

Before  the  boy  reached  the  house,  they 
had  carried  Enoch's  bleeding  and  bruised 
form  up-stairs — the  very  stairs  he  had  gone 
down  only  a  few  hours  before,  in  the  strength 
of  his  manhood. 

They  had  tenderly  laid  (those  rough,  hard- 
working  men)  their  helpless,  groaning  bur 
den  on  the  little  bed  ;  and  then,  noiselessly 
they  had  crept  from  the  room,  and  joined 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  \  7 

the  anxious-faced  company  gathered  round 
the  door.  There  were  women  there  wring 
ing  their  hands,  and  little  children  peering 
In  with  awe-struck  looks.  But  they  all 
made  way  for  Paul.  Even  the  doctor,  who, 
had  harshly  turned  every  one  from  the  room 
spoke  gently  to  the  lad,  saying,  "  Come  in,' 
and  Paul,  he  crept  close  to  the  bedside — 
so  close  the  crimson  drops  from  the  cruel 
wounds  fell  on  the  boy's  hand.  "  Father ! 
father !"  he  softly  whispered,  "  don't  you 
know  me — Paul?"  But  no  answer  came; 
the  silent  white  lips  framed  no  word  ;  the 
heavy  eyelids  did  not  lift,  and  thus  the  day 
stole  on  toward  nightfall  —  the  dreary  au 
tumn  day  of  moaning  wind  and  leaden 
clouds.  And  the  quiet  in  the  room  was 
unbroken,  save  by  the  gasping  breath  of  the 
dying  man,  and  the  faint  ticking  of  the  little 
clock,  so  ruthlessly  counting  the  quickly 
passing  minutes. 

Paul  never  left  the  bedside — never  uttered 
a  word  after  that  first  pleading  cry,  "  Father, 
doii't  you  know  me  ;"  and  they  did  not  trj 


UPLANDS  AXD  LOWLANDS. 

to  lead  him  away,  for  "  it  will  be  over  in  at. 
hour  or  two,"  the  doctor  had  said  ;  yet  life 
still  was  there  when  the  midnight  bell  struck. 
And  "  he  is  better,"  Paul  thought,  as  the 
doctor  held  the  candle  so  that  its  full 
light  fell  on  the  sufferer's  face,  for  Enoch 
opened  his  eyes,  while  his  lips  moved  ab 
though  to  speak  ;  but  not  for  a  minute  after 
did  the  broken,  almost  inarticulate  words 
come.  Paul  bent  his  head  low  to  catch 
them,  those  last  words, "  A — Father — of  the 
— fatherless,'1  —  and  then  Enoch  struggled 
again  for  the  fast  wasting  breath,  before  he 
murmured,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  Paul 
far  off,  so  low  and  strange  was  it,  "  Rest — 
i  I ( >me  —  Christ — Snow-flake  —  and  —  little 
Paul."  And  he  smiled,  while  once  again 
he  whispered, "  A  Father—of — the — father. 
less." 

And  then  —  a  shadow  —  a  gray  shadow, 
stole  over  his  face ;  the  coid  hand  which 
Paul  held  grew  colder ;  the  feeble  clasp 
of  the  fingers  loosened,  and  —  a  great  sil 
ence  filled  the  room.  Half  an  hour  after 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS  ug 

they  led  Paul  away ;  they  told  the  anxi 
ous-faced  men  waiting  down  in  the  front 
room, 

"  He  's  gone  " — "  Paul  Foster  is  an  orphan 
now." 

Coming  down  stairs,  the  doctor  heard 
the  words,  and  out  loud  and  clear  he  spoke, 
so  loud  that  Paul  in  the  inner  room,  dis 
tinctly  heard  him  say, 

"  No,  Paul  is  not  an  orphan  ;  for  Enoch 
Foster's  God  will  be  a  '  Father  to  the  father 
less.'  " 

Then  the  front  door  closed  after  the  doc 
tor,  whose  work  was  over. 


III. 

*•  XT~IGHT  brings  out  stars  as  sorrow 
L  i  shows  us  truths."  Thus  the  poet 
sanj,  and  thus  many  a  sad  mourner  has 
learned,  meeting,  where  least  they  thought 
to  meet  them,  with  deeds  of  kindness,  shin 
ing  deeds  of  tender  sympathy,  revealing 
the  truth, that  kind  hearts  are  everywhere. 
Paul  found  it  so  during  the  first  hours  of 
his  grief,  for  there  seemed  no  end  to  the 
helping  hands  stretched  out  to  him ;  and 
yet  they  were  all  powerless  to  comfort ; 
even  the  words  his  father  had  said,  those 
last  words,  "A  Father  of  the  fatherless," 
seemed  to  him  as  an  empty  sound. 

They  had  let  him  go  back  to  the  little 

room,  where  they  had  closed  the  blinds  and 

shut  out  the  bright  sunlight  (for  the  storm 

*ras  over  at  dawn) ;  and  there  they  let  him 

(120) 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  2 1 

stay  quietly  by  the  side  of  the  white- 
covered  bed  where  the  motionless  form 
lay. 

Paul  held  in  his  hands  the  old  Bible  ;  he 
turned  the  leaves  to  the  page  he  had  bent 
over  only  such  a  little  while  before  with  his 
father ;  he  read  the  verses  which  he  knew 
had  been  precious  to  both  father  and  mother, 
but  they  seemed  all  cold  and  meaningless 
to  him,  for  it  was  Christ,  not  the  Bible 
verses,  that  could  console,  and  he  did  not 
look  then  to  Christ.  But,  like  many  another 
groping  heart-sick  seeker  for  comfort,  he 
hugged  close  the  sacred  pages,  forgetting 
the  hand  of  faith  must  be  clinging  to  Christ, 
before  the  Scripture  becomes  illumined ; 
forgetting  that  the  Bible  record  is  but  as 

o  o 

the  fringe  of  that  garment  the  trembling 
woman  touched,  and  in  touching  was  made 
whole,  because  she  had  first  looked  on  the 
Lord.  While  in  the  pressing  crowd  throng 
ing  about  Him,  many  another  touched  that 
same  fringe,  and  yet  to  them  no  healing 
came,  for  their  gaze  was  on  the  twisted 
ii 


122  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

cord,  the  seamless  robe,  rather  than  on  Him 
who  wore  it. 

Alas,  how  often  we  turn  thus  to  ihe  Book 
saying,  "Others,  weary,  sin -tempted  ami 
trouble-tossed,  find  comfort  here  !  Why  not 
we  ?  And  we  read  the  very  same  words, 
and  yet  are  not  comforted,  for  not  the 
Scripture,  but  Christ,  is  what  we  want 
— "  Christ  who  gives  to  Scripture  its 
worth." 

So,  all  alone,  Paul  felt ;  it  seemed  to  him, 
as  though  he  had  been  pushed  suddenly 
out  of  some  safe  mooring,  place  into  mid- 
ocean,  where  his  frail  bark  was  a  toy  for  the 
sport  of  winds  and  stormful  waves.  Yet 
outwardly  he  was  calm,  keeping  the  great 
grief  throbbing  in  his  heart  to  himself,  never 
giving  up  to  a  wild  outburst  of  sorrow  but 
once,  and  that  was  the  day  when  he  heard 
the  muffled  tread  of  the  men  upon  the  stairs 
— when  he  knew  the  little  room  had  been 
left  empty. 

The  morning  after  the  accident,  there 
was  scarcely  a  breakfast-table  in  Tompkins- 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  123 

ville  round  which  some  kind,  pitying  words 
of  Paul  Foster  were  not  spoken. 

Strangely  unlike  words  they  were,  for 
human  sympathy  has  as  many  different  ut 
terances  as  birds  have  songs.  Yet  all  have 
a  certain  music,  if  they  be  true  heart-words. 
And  how  do  we  know  but  the  cheerless 
'  Caw !  caw !"  of  the  gloomy-feathered 
crow,  and  the  mournful  hoot  of  the  owl, 
have  as  large  and  important  a  place  to  fill 
in  the  bird  realm  as  the  nightingale's  tender 
note,  the  up-soaring  carol  of  the  lark,  or 
the  rippling,  trilling,  prolonged  sweetness 
of  the  golden-winged  canary's  song ! 

Squire  Ludlow,  president  of  the  Tomp- 
kinsville  Bank,  shook  his  head  gravely  when 
he  heard  of  Enoch's  death,  and,  for  the 
Fquire's  mind  was  hedged  round  with  dol 
lars  and  cents,  said,  "  It  will  be  hard  for  the 
boy  ;  he  has  never  known  want,  though  his 
father  was  only  a  mill-hand,  and  it  is  a  low 

figure  Enoch  Foster's  account  will  come  to 
• — he  spent  pretty  much  all  his  earnings  on 
Paul's  education."  And  the  squire  gravely 


» 24  UPLANDS  AND  LO  WL  ANDS. 

shook  his  head  again,  as  he  added,  "  Paul 
has  been  lifted  out  of  his  station  ;  it  will 
make  it  all  the  harder  for  him,  poor  lad." 

Lawyer  Blake's  wife,  who  lived  just  across 
the  way,  looked  at  her  own  boys  through 
tear -dimmed  eyes,  while  softly  she  said, 
thinking  of  Paul,  "  He  will  be  so  desolate, 
poor  child  !"  And — she  was  a  little  woman, 
a  winning,  coaxing  little  woman — she  whis 
pered  low  to  her  husband,  "  Could  n't  we 
ask  him  to  come  to  us  for  a  few  weeks, 
dear?"  And  then  she  met  the  frown  gather 
ing  on  the  lawyer's  brow — met  the  words 
framing  on  his  lips,  with  a  kiss,  and  other 
whispered  words.  "  You  know,  he  is 
motherless  and  fatherless  now" — and — well 
— Lawyer  Blake  looked,  as  his  wife  had 
done,  toward  their  own  boys  and  girls, 
while  he  replied,  "  Have  your  own  way, 
little  woman  !  God  bless  you  !" 

The  overseer  at  the  mill  gave  prompt 
directions  for  the  funeral,  say  in:;:  "Tell 
the  lad  he  will  be  put  to  no  expense.  Enoch 
Foster  was  always  a  right  good,  honest 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  125 

hand  ;  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  bury  him.' 
And  his  duty  done,  the  overseer  finished 
his  breakfast. 

The  minister,  who  had  been  absent  from 
town,  came  home  that  morning,  and  hearing 
the  sad  news  from  his  wife,  (who  met  him  on 
the  door-step,  holding  in  her  arms  their 
cooing,  laughing  baby,  "  waiting  for  papa,") 
hastened  away  again,  to  go  to  Paul,  meeting 
his  wife's  loving  remonstrance,  "  Surely  you 
will  rest  first,"  with  the  gentle  reminder  of  the 
spiritual  badge  of  his  sacred  office,  his  Mas 
ter's  words,  "  The  Son  of  man  came  not  to 
be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister ;"  and 
"  The  servant  is  not  above  his  Master."  At 
noontime,  the  mill  hands  assembled  in  little 
groups,  talking  it  over,  and  wondering  what 
Paul  would  do. 

"  We'll  see  now  the  real  stuff  the  boy  is 
made  of,"  said  one  ;  while  another  told  of 
some  act  of  kindness  Enoch  had  shown  ; 
and  "  I  tell  ye  what,"  said  a  third,  "  let's 
give  up  that  debate  along  with  the  factory 
folks.  I  tell  ye,  if  ye  waAt  to  know  whether 
II* 


126  UPLANDS  AX D  LOU  LANDS. 

there  be,  as  Enoch  always  said  there  was,  a 
God  alongside  of  folks  when  they  dies; 
whether  there  be  a  heaven  or  a  hell  for 
to  go  to ;  jist  take  a  look  at  his  face  now — 
it's  peaceful  like  as  any  baby's."  Then  the 
man  shuddered,  for  he  recalled  another 
silent  face,  so  different  from  Enoch's,  th  .t 
he  had  looked  upon  not  long  before  —  u 
passionate,  sin-marred  face. 

The  young  teacher  of  the  Academy  sought 
Paul,  too,  not  to  say  much,  only  to  grasp 
nis  hand  warmly. 

But  gentle,  motherly  Mrs.  Blake  drew 
nearer  to  him  than  any  one  else.  She 
brought  autumn  flowers,  pure  white  chry 
santhemums,  and  laid  them  in  his  hand, 
ing,  "  Place  them  where  you  like,  Paul." 
And  then  she  did  not  stay  to  see  where  he 
put  the  little  blossoms,  but  she  left  him 
alone,  coming  again  later  in  the  day — not  to 
tell  him,  as  Mrs.  Jenkins  did,  to  "  cheer  up," 
but  to  sit  down  by  his  side,  while,  in  a  low 
voice,  she  said  : 

"  Think    Paul,  h*w  long  your  father  has 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  \2J 

*sa  led  over  a  rough,  cold  wintry  sea  ;'  lonely 
for  your  mother;  then  think  how  'he  has 
suddenly  disembarked  upon  a  coast,  laden 
with  the  warm  rich  blossoms  of  spring.' ' 

The  boy's  picture-loving  soul  eagerly 
caught  at  her  words,  though  he  was  not 
comforted  by  them,  for,  "  Only  Christ  can 
comfort  him,"  said  the  minister  to  Mrs. 
Blake,  as  they  walked  together  down  the 
village  street,  which  was  strewn  with  the 
dea  1  and  yellow  leaves  that  had  fallen  dur 
ing  the  yesterday's  storm. 

T  he  two  long  days  preceding  the  funeral 
ga\e  Paul  much  time  for  thought.  At  first, 
he  looked  backward,  recalling  vividly  even 
trilling  events  of  his  childhood ;  that  happy 
time  before  his  mother  died.  Once  or 
twice,  sitting  alone  in  the  darkened  room, 
he  started,  almost  believing  for  a  moment 
he  heard  her  voice  again,  gently  whispering, 
"  God  is  love  ;"  and  then  he  felt  dizzy  and 
blinded,  for  he  knew  his  heart  could  not  re 
peat  those  words ;  and  yet,  he  thought, 
1>f  Mother  said  they  were  true,  and  surely 


128  UPLANDS  A\D  LOWLANDS. 

she  knew ;  and  father  often  told  me  never 
•rget  them,  even  when  things  did  seem 
dark,  and  surely  father  knew  '  in  whom  he 
believed.' " 

Thus  the  youth  clung  to  the  faith  of  bis 
parents;  and,  for  the  promise  is  sure, 
"Leave  thy  fatherless  children.  I  will  pre 
serve  them."  He  was  kept,  those  days, 
from  utter  despair,  though  his  sorely  troubl 
ed  heart  was  not  calmed  yet;  for,  he  had 
not  called  on  the  Lord  Christ,  waiting  and 
read)*  to  say,  only  for  the  call,  "  Peace,  be 
still." 

Quickly  chasing  Paul's  thoughts  of  the 
.  came  plans  for  the  future. 

"  What  could  he  do  now  he  was  alone  in 
the  world?"  over  and  over  he  asked  him- 
self. 

Yet,  all  these  anxious  cares  were  needless, 
for  the  "  Father  of  the  fatherless ''  had  pre 
pared  a  way  for  him,  as  he  learned  before 
long. 

The  overseer  at  the  mill  sent  word  to 
Paul  "a  place  was  all  ready  for  him  if  he 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  129 

wanted  it,  where  he  could  earn  wages 
enough  to  keep  him  ;"  and  the  mill  hands, 
who  had  known  his  father,  and  who  felt 
something  of  a  claim  on  Paul,  urged  his 
accepting  it.  An  offer  came,  too,  from  the 
factory,  where  a  lad,  able  to  keep  accounts, 
was  wanted,  and  Squire  Ludlow  called  this 
"  a  rare  opening  for  Paul."  Kind  Mrs. 
Blake  had  also  asked  him  to  come  to  them 
for  awhile,  promising  him  papers  to  copy, 
as  the  lawyer's  table  was  always  piled  with 
red  taped  packages,  waiting  to  be  dupli 
cated.  The  doctor,  too,  had  expressed 
willingness  to  take  him  into  his  office,  for, 
*'  There  is  the  make  of  a  fine  man  in  the 
boy,"  he  said,  recollecting  Paul's  self-pos 
session  and  quietness  during  the  long  hours 
of  watching  by  his  father's  side. 

All  these  kind  offers,  Paul  knew,  after  the 
funeral  (for  they  would  not  press  him  for  an 
answer  before  thpn)  must  be  set  aside,  unless 
he  relinquished  that  which  seemed  impossi 
ble  for  him  to  relinquish — the  hope  of  becom 
ing  an  artist.  Yet,  how  could  he  realize  this 


,30  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

hope  without  money  or  friends  to  help  him, 
for  he  well  knew  neither  Squire  Lucllmv, 
the  overseer,  Lawyer  Blake,  nor  the  doc 
cared  for  the  ever-changing  form  and  color 
pictures  of  the  cloud  world,  except  as  they 
ooked  up  to  say,  "It  will  be  wet,  windy, 
cold,  or  hot."  He  knew  they  were  equally 
indifferent,  too,  to  the  shadows  of  the  \va 
grain,  the  many-dyed  hues  of  the  flowers 
the  varied  tints  of  green  on  the  for 
or  wayside  bushes,  the  moss-covered  rocks, 
and  the  rippling  or  the  storm-tossed  waters. 
Yet,  all  these  were  to  him  as  bread  to  a 
hungry  man.  How  would  they  regard  his 
casting  aside  their  proffered  kindness,  be 
cause  he,  a  mill-hand's  boy,  wanted  to  be  an 
artist?  And  then  he  would  lean  his  head 
down  on  the  little  table,  bewildered  by  the 
future,  which  he  must  meet,  without  his 
father. 

It  was  a  cheerless  day,  when  the  long 
procession  of  sober -faced  men  passed 
through  the  village  street,  and  on  beyond  to 
the  silent  place  up  on  a  barren  dreary  hill 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


13* 


side,  where  the  dust  of  those  who  had 
"  gone  away  "  rested,  till  the  Resurrection 
morning.  Paul  never  could  recall  anything 
the  minister  said,  except  the  sentence,  "  A 
God  of  love."  Would  they  keep  repeating 
those  words  to  him  always  ?  he  thought. 
Would  he  ever  be  able  to  say  them  him 
self?  and  then  he  became  conscious  that  he 
was  standing  almost  alone  by  the  newly- 
made  grave. 

"  Come  away,  Paul,"  said  a  kind  voice ; 
and  he  made  no  resistance,  as  Mr.  Gray, 
the  young  school  teacher,  put  his  hand 
through  his  arm,  and  led  him  toward  home. 
No,  not  home  ;  Paul  could  not  think  of  it 
as  home  now,  though  he  had  been  wont 
thus  to  call  the  little  room  up-stairs  at  Mrs. 
Jenkins's. 

They  turned  into  a  narrow  path,  away 
from  the  high  road,  a  path  that  led  through 
the  fields,  and  by  the  creek  side  ;  for  Paul's 
friend  had  a  keen  appreciation  that  what 
would  comfort  the  boy,  more  than  any  human 
consolation,  was  the  being  brought  into 


j  3  2  UP  LA  XDS  AND  LO II' LA  \DS. 

communion  with  the  symbolism  of  Nature  ; 
so    he    let    drop    an    occasional    word    or 
two  which  lit  up  and  unveiled  the  touch 
of  God  shining  on  every  thing,  saying,  "  It 
He  takes  thought  for  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
the  birds  of  the  air,  will  He  not  care 
you,  Paul?"    And  he  did  not  wait  for  Paul 
to  reply.      Hd  just  left  the   comfort-laden 
question  with   him,  straightway  begins i 
to  talk  of  the  future  and  Paul's  plans. 

Almost  before  he  knew  it,  Paul  had  told 
him  of  his  artist  dreams,  and  had  told  of  the 
little  slate  with  the  crooked  lines,  which  his 
mother  had  known  he  meant  for  a  picture 
of  the  "green  pasture  and  still -water 
place." 

Thus  easily  docs  true  sympathy  ever  win 
confidence  from  the  young.  As  Paul  ceased 
speaking,  Mr.  Gray  said,  "  I  can  help  you,  I 
think."  And  then  he  told  what  the  boy 
called  a  strange  coincidence,  but  what  the 
young  man  termed  a  special  Providence 
saying  "I  received,  this  morning,  a  k-ttof 
from  a  college  friend  who  loves  art,  and  he 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS. 


133 


writes,"  and  Mr.  Gray  opened  the  letter, 
and  read  aloud, 

"  If,  among-  your  young  geniuses,  any 
aspiring  youth  wants  a  situation  in  a  wood- 
engraving  establishment,  I  can  secure  for 
him  such  a  place." 

They  had  reached  the  house  as  Mr.  Gray 
finished  reading  this.  And,  after  a  few 
words,  he  left  Paul,  saying,  "  I  will  come 
to-morrow  and  see  you  about  it." 

Then,  Paul  went  up-stairs  to  the  dreary, 
lonely  room,  where  he  stayed  by  himself 
till  long  after  dark,  where  he  murmured, 
half  aloud,  the  words  of  his  after  creed — 
though  he  could  say  but  very  stammeringly 
that  night,  and  for  many  nights,  the  words, 
"  God  is  love,"  "  A  Father  of  the  fatherless." 

But,  even  the  hesitating,  half  inaudible 
utterance  of  the  promises  comforted  him. 
And  presently  he  slept,  peacefully  as  a 
child. 

12 


IV. 

AFTER  his  talk  with  Paul,  Mr.  Gray 
wrote  at  once  to  his  friend,  and 
within  a  few  days  received  a  favorable 
reply,  saying,  "  The  situation  at  the  wood- 
engravers'  was  still  vacant,  though  several 
had  applied  for  it;  but,  if  Paul  could  be  in 
the  city  by  the  following  Wednesday,  the 
place  should  be  kept  for  him." 

Mr.  Elliott,  Mr.  Gray's  friend,  also  wrote, 
that  while  the  lad's  position  would  not  be 
that  of  an  apprentice  exactly,  the  under 
standing  was,  that  he  would  remain  with 
his  employer  till  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
while  a  mere  pittance  in  the  way  of  com 
pensation,  barely  enough  to  clothe  and 
board  him,  was  all  he  would  receive  ;  as  the 
advantage  of  acquiring  knowledge,  and  at 
tending  free  art  lectures,  would  count,  in 

(-34) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


135 


the  "  long  run,"  of  more  value,  to  the  would- 
be  artist,  than  money.  The  letter  ended 
with  the  sentence,  "  You  know  the  old 
saying,  '  If  drawing  upon  wood  leads  to 
any  power  at  all  in  painting,  that  power  is 
characterized  by  originality.'  ' 

Mr.  Gray  carried  the  letter  immediately 
to  Paul,  pointing  out  to  him  that  if  he  ac 
cepted  the  situation,  he  must  accept  also, 
hard  work  and  self-denial.  Yet,  he  added, 
with  a  smile, 

"  What  is  worth  winning,  Paul,  is  worth 
striving  for ;  and  do  not  forget,  if  you  under 
take  it,  that  the  same  truth  holds  good  of 
picture  making,  as  of  every  other  life  work, 
and  that  is,  '  that  while  our  fellow-creatures 
can  only  judge  what  we  are  by  what  we  do, 
in  the  eye  of  our  Maker,  what  we  do  is  of 
no  worth,  except  as  it  flows  from  what  we 
are:  " 

Paul  looked  so  eagerly  at  Mr.  Gray  as  he 
said  this,  that  the  young  man  tore  a  leaf 
from  his  note-book,  saying,  "  I  will  copy  the 
whole  quotation  for  you ;  perhaps  it  will 


!36  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

give  you  encouragement  some  day,  when, 
perchance,  you  may  be  disheartened,  from 
the  lack  of  appreciation  your  work  re 
ceives."  And  he  wrote  down  the  words: 

"  Though  the  fig-tree  should  produce  no 
visible  fruit,  yet,  if  the  living  sap  is  in  it, 
and  if  it  has  struggled  to  put  forth  buds  and 
blossoms,  which  have  been  prevented  from 
maturing  by  inevitable  contingencies  of 
tempests  or  untimely  frosts,  the  virtuous 
sap  will  be  accounted  as  fruit,  and  the  curse 
of  barrenness  will  light  on  many  a  tree,  from 
the  boughs  of  which  hundreds  have  been 
satisfied ;  because,  the  Omniscient  Jucli^c 
knows  that  the  fruits  were  threaded  to  the 
boughs  artificially  by  the  outward  working 
of  base  fears,  and  selfish  hopes,  and  were 
neither  nourished  by  the  love  of  God  or 
man,  nor  grew  out  of  the  graces  grafted  on 
the  stock  of  religion  " 

Paul  folded  up  carefully,  the  strip  of  paper 
Mr.  Gray  handed  him  and  laid  it  away  in 
the  worn  pocket-book  that  had  been  his 
father's. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  137 

Much  opposition  the  plan  of  the  lad's 
.eaving  Tompkinsville  met  with  from  his 
friends. 

Squire  Ludlow  called  it  folly  to  throw 
away  easy  work  and  good  wages  for  a  situ 
ation  where  poor  pay  and  hard  labor  seemed 
to  be  the  chief  things.  "  You  will  hardly 
have  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  to 
gether,  Paul,"  he  said,  with  an  ominous 
iSok. 

The  overseer  frowned,  saying: 

"  You'll  be  sorry  before  a  month  is  over. 
I  reckon  you  had  better  change  your  mind 
now." 

But  the  youth  was  steadfast. 

The  mill-hands  talked  it  over,  too ;  won 
dering  what  would  become  of  the  lad  in  a 
strange  city. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  go  for?"  they 
asked.  "  The  mill  was  a  good  enough  place 
for  your  father." 

Yet,  though  their  voices  were  gruff,  the 
night  before  Paul  eft,  they  assembled  in 
Mrs.  Jenkins's  front  room,  and  out  of  their 
12* 


- 


j^g  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

hard  earned  savings,  made  up  a  purse  foi 
him,  saying,  as  they  gave  it, "  It  ain't  much, 
but  ye'll  find  use  for  it,  we  calculate."  And 
when  Paul  decidedly  said  "No,"  he  could 
not  accept  the  gilt,  a  gray-haired  man,  a 
friend  of  his  father's,  spoke  up,  saying, 
"  Don't  say  nothin',  boy,  but  jist  take  it.  It 
ain't  for  ycr  ourn,  so  much  as  for  yer 
father's  sake,  ye  see.  He'd  ne'er  a  let  ye  go 
Dut  unprovided  for  like," — and  Paul  yieldecf 

It  was  a  dismal  morning  when  he  bade 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Jenkins  and  "  the  men," 
vftho  came  out  to  the  mill  gate  to  shake 
hands  once  again,  as  he  passed  on  his  way 
to  the  depot,  for  journeying  to  and  from 
Tompkinsville  was  no  longer  accomplished 
by  a  weary  drive  over  a  rough  road,  in 
stage  coach  or  wagon,  like  that  in  which 
Enoch  and  Paul  entered  the  place. 

Paul  did  not  dare  to  turn  his  gaze  once 
toward  the  bleak  hillside,  where  the  new 
grave  had  been  made  scarcely  a  week  be- 
fore.  Neither  did  he  look  back  at  Mi-. 
Jenkins,  whom  he  left  standing  in  the  door- 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  139 

way,  wiping  her  eyes  on  the  clean  calico 
apron  which  she  had  put  on,  as  she  said, 
"  to  look  sort  o'  respectable  like  to  Paul 
afore  he  went  away,  'cause  he  was  so  mighty 
particular  about  sich  things." 

And  he  tried  not  to  see  the  mist  that 
rough  coat  sleeves  rubbed  away  from^nany 
an  eye,  unused  to  dimness,  as  he  said  "  Fare 
well." 

He  had  left  the  blue  chest  in  Mrs.  Blake's 
care ;  only  taking  with  him  his  clothes,  the 
old  Bible,  little  slate,  sketches,  and  two  or 
three  books  his  school-mates  had  given 
him  ;  seeking  thus  to  show  the  sympathy 
they  truly  felt,  yet  shrank  from  uttering,  as 
is  the  way  with  the  young  and  unlearned 
in  sorrow. 

A  travel-marred  valise,  which  Mr.  Gray 
had  said,  "  You  may  have  as  well  as  not, 
Paul,"  held  all  his  effects,  including  a  "  few 
things"  Mrs.  Blake  had  told  him  he  must 
find  room  for,  and  which  she  had  taken 
from  her  "  own  boy's  "  ample  supply. 

The  minister's  wife,  too,  had  hemmed  and 


140 


JPLANDS  A. YD  LOll'LAXDS. 


marked  half  a  dozen  new  handkerchiefs 
(which  had  been  given  to  her  husband  last 
donation  day,)  and  she  had  also  stitched  a 
collar  or  two,  which  Paul  could  not  refuse 
to  accept,  they  were  so  kindly  proffered. 

The  account  in  the  bank,  against  Enoch 
Foster's  name,  had  proved,  as  Squire  Lud- 
low  prophesied,  very  small,  after  deducting 
from  it  the  amount  due  Mrs.  Jenkins,  and 
the  doctor's  bill ;  indeed,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  mill-hands'  purse,  Paul  would  have 
started  forth  almost  penniless.  It  was  grow 
ing  dark  when  the  swift-going  express 
train  neared  the  city,  quite  dark  when  it 
glided  into  the  depot,  but  Mr.  Gray  had 
given  him  such  minute  directions,  Paul  was 
not  bewildered,  as  many  a  country  lad 
would  have  been,  and  yet,  fof  a  minute,  he 
hesitated  in  approaching  the  tall,  severe- 
looking  man,  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  police 
man,  from  the  bright-buttoned  coat  he  wore, 
and  who,  Mr.  Gray  had  said,  would  direct 
him  to  the  lodging-house  where  his  new 
employer  had  written  "a  room  had  been 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS,  141 

engaged  for  the  lad."  Paul's  voice  was  sc 
low,  twice  he  repeated  his  question  before 
the  man  replied,  "  The  place  ye  want,  well, 
let  me  see,"  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  street, 
which  was  as  light  as  day,  from  the  many 
iamps ;  pointing  down  it,  he  said :  "  Go 
straight  ahead  for  a  block,  and  then  turn  to 
yer  left,  and  the  next  street  ye  come  to, 
turn  to  the  right,  and  after  a  block  or  so,  I 
can't  jest  say  how  many,  you'lf  come  to  a 
sori  of  alley- way  ;  somewhere  along  there 
you'll  ll*i«i  the  place,"  and  the  man  turned, 
tr»  answer  snother  enquirer. 

Paul  coula  not  help  smiling,  the  direction 
was  so  utterly  puzzling,  yet  though  he  smil 
ed,  his  heart  sank,  but  he  said  to  himself 
bravely,  "  I  wont  lose  courage  this  first 
night." 

A  full  hour  had  gone  by,  before  he  found 
the  place,  a  high  red  brick  house,  a  dreary 
looking  prison-like  house ;  he  rang  the  bell, 
almost  dreading  to  have  the  door  opened, 
fearing  to  find  the  interior  even  less  invit 
ing  than  the  outside,  which  he  could  see 


I42  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

plainly,  for  a   street  lamp  was  just    3ppo« 
site. 

A  slovenly  woman,  with  a  torn  frock,  an 
swered  his  ring,  and  in  reply  to  the  ques 
tion,  "  Does  Mrs.  Forbes  live  here  ?"  said. 
"  I  am  that  person.  Are  you  the  young  man 
from  the  country  the  room  was  engaged 
for?"  and  looking  contemptuously  at  the 
little  valise,  she  added,  "  Is  that  all  the  lug 
gage  you  fetched  along  ?"  Paul  nodded  an 
assent  to  both  enquiries.  "  Your  room  is  in 
the  attic,"  the  woman  continued;  "follow 
me,  and  I'll  show  you,"  and  taking  a  lamp 
from  the  hall  table,  she  led  the  way  up  flight 
after  flight  of  stairs,  till  at  last  they  reach 
ed  a  close  dingy  little  room,  the  air  of  which 
almost  suffocated  Paul,  used  as  he  was  to 
the  sweet  fresh  country  odors. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  she  said,  sitting  down 
on  the  one  chair,  to  take  breath.  "  If  you 
want  a  bite  to  eat,  though  we  only  agreed 
to  provide  you  with  breakfast,  and  it  ain't 
our  way  to  offer  extras,  come  down  to  the 
kitchen,  and  I'll  give  you  something  ;  you'll 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

find  it  at  the  very  foot  of  all  the  stairs 
and  me  in  it  most  of  the  time,  as  low  down 
as  low  can  be,"  and  the  woman  laughed  a 
hollow,  dreary  sort  of  laugh,  rising  at  the 
same  time  to  go  but  first  she  turned  for  a 
second  look  at  Paul's  face,  a  sad  lonely  face 
that  night,  which  somehow  touched  her 
heart,  perhaps,  because  she  had  been  young 
once  herself,  and  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
city ;  whatever  the  cause,  she  lingered  to 
say,  "  Don't  feel  lonesome,  you'll  like  it 
soon,  though  it  ain't  much  like  the  country 
you  came  from,"  and  again  she  gave  the 
quick  short  laugh,  the  laugh  which  sound 
ed  so  like  a  smothered  sigh. 

"  No,"  replied  Paul,  "  not  much,"  and  in 
his  turn  he  glanced  at  the  woman,  as  she 
had  done  at  him,  and  he  saw  something  in 
her  face,  as  she  had  seen  in  his,  which 
touched  him  with  pity.  Impulsively  he  tore 
the  paper  (he  had  wrapt,  to  protect  them 
from  the  evening  chill,)  from  round  a  bunch 
of  bright  autumn  flowers  Mrs.  Blake  had 
given  him  just  as  he  was  leaving  Tompkins- 


I44  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

ville,  while   he   said,  "Wouldn't  you   like 
some  ?"  and  he  divided  the  bunch. 

It  was  a  soiled  hand  that  was  held  out  to 
receive  the  flowers.  A  minute  after,  there 
fell  and  rested,  like  a  dew-drop,  on  the  pure 
leaves,  a  tear,  which  the  woman  seeing,  said, 
"  I  have  not  shed  one  before  for  years." 
Then  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  left  the  room, 
laughing  again  the  sharp,  hollow  laugh  ;  yet, 
all  the  time,  she  was  looking  tenderly  at  the 
flowers. 


V. 


EFORE  seven  o'clock  had  struck  the 
next  morning,  Paul  was  up,  and  had 
read  a  chapter  in  the  old  Bible,  for  he  said 
to  himself,  "  Though  I  don't  feel  as  father 
and  mother  did,  I  won't  neglect  the  read 
ing."  He  had  shared  too,  with  some  half 
dozen  other  young  men,  the  scanty,  ill-cook 
ed  breakfast  prepared  by  Mrs.  Forbes.  As 
they  finished  the  meal,  one  of  them,  whose 
countenance  had  attracted  Paul,  stepped  up 
to  him,  saying  with  a  frank  smile  : 

"  If,  as  I  suppose,  you  are  the  young  man 
expected  by  Mr.  Gilbert,  the  wood  engrav 
er,  I  will  show  you  the  way  to  his  office,  for 
I  work  in  the  establishment." 

So  he  and  Paul,  (who  carried  the  little 
package  of  his  sketches,  as  Mr.  Gray  had 
bade  him,)  started  forth. 

They  had  not  far  to  go,  and  in  a  few  min- 
13  (us) 


I46  UPLANDS  A.YD  LOWLANDS. 

utes  trie  young  man  ran  quickly  up  a  nar. 
row  stair  way,  followed  by  Paul.  Opening 
a  door  he  led  the  way  into  a  small  office, 
saying,  "  You  had  better  wait  here  till  Mr. 
Gilbert  comes;  he  will  be  in  about  nine 
o'clock,"  and  Paul's  guide  hastened  away  to 
his  work. 

Paul  looked  about  curiously,  and  fell  into 
wondering,  whether  it  really  could  be,  that 
the  dainty  illustrations  which  Mrs.  Blake  had 
shown  him  in  the  gift  books  strewn  about 
her  parlor  table,  were  brought  to  perfection 
in  that  dreary  building,  shut  in  by  brick 
walls.  He  thought  of  one,  a  picture  of  a 
little  brook,  creeping  along  by  a  shady  road 
way,  in  which  every  leaf  of  the  overhang 
ing  willows,  every  blade  of  grass  on  the 
bankside  had  its  place,  and  then  he  re 
membered  another,  in  one  of  the  books  his 
school-mates  had  given  him,  a  tiny  picture 
of  a  rocky  coast,  and  broad  expanse  of  water, 
which  stretched  away  to  the  horizon  line, 
over  which  the  full  moon  had  just  risen, 
casting  its  silvery  brightness  across  the 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

dartt  water,  lighting  up  the  white  sails  of  an 
anchored  vessel,  while  just  outside  the 
moonlight,  a  tempest-tossed  barque  was 
moored.  Surely  the  artist  must  have  pencil 
ed  the  view  out  under  the  blue  sky,  sitting  on 
breezy  cliff,  within  sound  of  the  waves 
breaking  on  the  rocks  below ;  surely  he 
must  have  been  in  sympathy  with  the  mind 
of  the  poem-weaver,  whose  verse  he  had 
transformed  into  a  picture  poem,  and  Paul 
repeated  the  lines,  to  which  the  sketch  serv 
ed  as  an  echo : 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 
Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we, 
Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 
Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 
Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 
And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 
And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 
As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 
Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 
It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 
But  ourselves 
That  rock  and  rise 
With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 
Now  touching  the  very  skies, 
Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean, 
xAh  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 
Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 


J48  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do,/ 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  !" 

Was  it  some  tiny  thread  in  the  golden 
warp  of  his  life,  that  guided  his  memory  to 
those  words,  just  as  he  stood  on  the  thresh 
old  of  the  practical  work-side  of  picture 
making?  For,  whether  they  be  produced 
by  softly-shaded,  sober  pencil  tints,  or  in 
glowing  colors,  there  is  to  every  picture,  as 
to  every  poem,  worthy  of  the  name,  a  back 
ground  of  pains-taking  work,  and  will  be, 
till  we  reach  that  land,  where  "  they  do  rest 
from  labor,"  and  yet  "  serve  day  and  night," 
for  the  shadow,  which  fell  on  work  that  long 
ago  day,  when  the  Voice  of  the  Lord 
said,  "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou 
eat  bread,  till  thou  return  unto  the  ground," 
always  rests  on  the  toilers  among  men, 
whether  they  be  toilers  in  heart,  mind,  or 
hand  gardens ;  yet  that  shadow  is  illumined, 
if  we  remember,  whatsoever  we  do,  we  may 
'  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God." 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  149 

"  A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgerie  divine ; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  God's  laws 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine." 

Paul's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  Mr.  Gilbert.  He  was  an  elderly 
pleasant-countenanced  gentleman,  whose 
cordial  manner,  made  the  youth  feel  imme 
diately  at  ease,  while  at  the  same  time,  it 
made  him  realize  that  a  great  gulf,  the  gulf 
of  social  position,  separated  him  from  his 
employer. 

After  a  few   minutes'  conversation,    Mr. 
Gilbert  said  : 

"Come  with  me,  and   I    will   show   you 
about  the  establishment,  Foster." 

A  chill  crept  over  the  lad's  heart,  as  he 
heard  himself  called  thus,  "  Foster."    "Will  I 
never  be  Paul  to  any  one  again,"  he  thought, 
as  they  passed  through  the  long  entry  lead 
ing  to  the  work-rooms,  and  softly  he  whis 
pered,  "  Paul, — little  Paul."   It  was  the  name 
his   mother  gave   him,  and,  with  a   sudden 
rush  of  memory,  he  seemed  to  be  far  away 
once  more  in  the  cottage  by  the  lake  side 
13* 


1 50  UPLAXDS  A\D  LOM' LANDS. 

and  then  he  was  in  the  old  room  at  Mrs 
Jenkins',  he  was  standing  by  his  father 
reading  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  low- 
burnt  candle,  the  B;ble  verse,  "  Paul,  a  ser 
vant  of  Jesus  Christ." 

It  was  over  in  a  minute,  just  as  such  rush 
ing  tides  of  emotion  always  are,  and  he  re 
plied,  in  a  steady  voice,  to  the  question 
Gilbert  asked,  and  then  paid  close  attention 
to  his  explanation  of  the  different  parts  ot 
the  work  executed  in  the  establishment. 

There  was  much  to  interest  Paul,  and  his 
speaking  face  was  glowing  with  excitement 
when  they  returned  to  the  office. 

"  These  are  some  of  your  sketches,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert  as  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  package  Paul  had  left  on  the  table ; 
"  you  did  right  in  bringing  them  with  you." 

Just  as  he  was  beginning  to  turn  them 
over,  the  door  opened,  and  Mr  Elliott  enter 
ed.  He  spoke  kindly,  though  hastily,  to 
Paul,  while  he  looked  at  the  sketches  with 
Mr.  Gilbert,  who  seemed  to  forget  the  lad's 
presence  as  he  said," 


UPLANDS  4ND  LOWLANDS.  151 

"  There  are  signs  of  power  in  these  rude 
drawings  ;  your  friend  Gray  was  right ;  the 
youth  has  the  make  of  an  artist  in  him." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  new  comer,  as  he 
held  up  a  sketch ;  "  this,  though  rough  and 
jnfinished,  is  a  telling  little  thing." 

It  was  a  study  Paul  had  made  not  long 
before,  one  summer  day  of  the  happy  by 
gone  season,  a  lightning-blasted  oak,  around 
which  a  woodbine  twined  for  support, 
while  mosses  and  lichens  clung  closely  to 
the  ragged  torn  bark,  as  though  striving  to 
hide  the  marks  of  the  deadly  lightning's  flash. 

The  two  gentlemen  looked  at  it  in  silence, 
till,  as  though  he  suddenly  'remembered 
Paul  was  waiting,  Mr.  Gilbert  turned  to 
him,  saying, 

"  You  may  go  now,  but  come  to-morrow 
morning,  ready  to  begin  work,  as  you  will 
be  directed  by  the  gentleman  in  the  back 
room,"  and  he  nodded  in  token  of  dismissal 
while  he  resumed  conversation  with  Mr. 
Elliott. 

So  the  next  day,  Paul  Foster  began  in 


1^2  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

good  earnest  the  occupation  which  was  to 
help  him  in  climbing  up  the  slowly-gained 
rounds  in  the  ladder  of  an  artist's  life. 

But,  we  must  not  linger  to  follow  the 
youth  step  by  step  of  the  way  he  trod,  dur 
ing  the  next  five  years ;  suffice  to  tell,  that 
he  worked  faithfully,  and  that  Mr.  Gilbert, 
after  the  first  twelve  months,  had  the  dis 
cernment  to  discover  that  Paul's  sketches 
were  mere  hints  of  the  talent  for  drawing 
with  which  he  was  so  richly  endowed,  and 
that,  as  a  draftsman  on  wood,  he  could  ren 
der  far  more  service,  than  by  handling  the 
tools  of  an  engraver.  So  for  six  months, 
Paul's  time  -was  devoted  to  the  study  of 
perspective  and  form.  Mr.  Gilbert  knew 
the  outlay  necessary  for  this  would  soon  be 
paid  by  the  youth's  becoming  a  proficient. 
Rules,  and  grace  of  touch  were  all  Paul 
needed  to  acquire,  for  nature,  the  mother 
art-teacher,  had  been  instructing  him  all  his 
life  long,  and  never  a  clover  leaf  or  butter- 
cup,  but  found  its  right  place  in  the  dainty 
sketches  he  drew. 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  5  3 

It  was  a  wearisome,  monotonous  life  he 
led,  yet,  not  foi  a  moment  did  he  ever 
waver  in  his  determination  to  become  a  pic 
ture  painter.  It  was  severe  discipline  too,  for 
one  who  loved  color  as  Paul  had  done  from 
babyhood,  to  set  aside  its  charms,  and  pa 
tiently  toil  over  the  "  black  and  white " 
sketches,  which  represented,  but  could  not 
be  equivalent  to  him  for  the  charm  of  color, 
however  much  soul  he  threw  into  them. 

Yet  those  long  years  of  work  upon  wood 
when  his  single  instrument  was  a  black-lead 
pencil,  when  he  drew  the  exquisite  little 
glimpses  of  woodland  nook,  mossy  rock, 
graceful  elm,  stately  pine,  or  tiny  flower, 
(which  delighted  every  beholder,  though 
scarcely  one  ever  asked  whose  hand  drew 
the  delicate  things,)  were  training  Paul  for 
future  power  in  his  profession,  even  though 
they  did  seem  to  him,  those  years,  like  a 
never  ending  prelude,  to  symphony  or  song. 
His  intellectual  life,  as  it  grew  and  unfold 
ed,  so  demanded  color  to  express  itself, 
"  like  notes  of  music,"  he  wrote  Mr.  Gray 


1 54  UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS. 

"  that  are  meaningless  alone,  but,  blended 
form  a  rich  full  chord  that  sounds  forth 
their  depth  of  tone ;  these  pencil  sketches  of 
mine  seem  al  meaningless,  wanting  the 
tones  of  purity,  strength,  tenderness,  and 
brightness,  which  belong  to  music  and 
painting  alike,  and  which  the  chord  gives 
the  former,  while  color  reveals  them  in  the 
latter." 

This  was  the  life  helped  forward  by  his 
work,  but,  there  was  another,  deeper,  far 
ther  reaching,  even  the  "  life  everlasting," 
going  on  all  the  time  in  Paul  Foster's  soul, 
which  a  few  pages  will  serve  to  portray. 


VI. 

PAUL  continued  during  those  five  years 
to  lodge  and  breakfast  at  Mrs.  Forbes' 
cheerless  home,  occupying  the  same  dingy 
far  upstair  room,  to  which  she  had  shown 
him  that  first  night ;  though  often  since  then, 
she  had  said, 

"  If  you  want  another  room,  a  flight  lower 
and  a  little  larger  than  this,  you  may  havre 
it  for  the  same  price,  considering  you  are  so 
quiet,  and  never  make  any  trouble." 

But  Paul  always  replied, 

"  No !  I  will  make  po  change." 

The  truth  was,  he  had  grown  wonted  to 
the  little  place  ;  had  learned  to  feel  at  home 
there,  where  he  could  look  up  through  the 
skylight  window  and  see  the  blue  above. 
Many  and  many  were  the  nights,  during  the 
first  years,  that  cold  and  hungry  he  had 

dss) 


jc6  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

crept  into  his  hard  and  scantily  covered 
bed,  to  lie  for  hours  sleepless,  yet  not  feeling 
half  so  lonely  as  he  did  when  among  the 
young  men  downstairs,  because,  when  up 
there,  he  could  see  the  stars;  because  he 
could  repeat,  over  and  over,  the  words  the 
fanner's  wife  had  said,  "  Like  enough,  ycr 
Ma  sees  ye  all  the  time,"  and  Paul  would 
add,  "  And  Father  does  too."  As  he  grew 
older  he  would  sometimes  sit  till  far  into  the 
night,  bending  over  book  or  pamphlet,  that 
dealt  with  those  darkling  investigations, 
which  skepticism  in  daring  bravado,  and 
fearing  nothing,  holds  up  with  alluring 
light  before  a  mind  like  Paul's ;  a  mind, 
which  had  been  eager  for  knowledge,  ever 
since  the  days  when  he  had  listened  to  the 
unlearned  mill-hands,  discussing  many  of 
the  same  puzzling  questions. 

The  "  new  theories  "  fascinated  him — not 
so  very  new  though,  for  they  have  been  puz 
zling  and  stirring  minds  ever  since  the  world 
began,  and  yet,  all  the  time,  they  have  been 
bowing  to  the  positive  certainty  •'  that 


UPLANDS  AND  L 0  W 'LANDS.  \  5  7 

somehow  and  somewhere,  in  spite  of  ap 
pearances,  things  are  not  as  they  seem,  but 
justice  is  at  the  heart  of  them — "  justice,  or 
as  the  Greeks  called  it,  destiny,  which  is  no 
other  than  Providence,  "  for  Prometheus 
chained  on  the  rock,  is  but  the  counterpar^ 
of  Job  on  the  dunghill,  torn  with  agony, 
yet  still  defying  the  tyrant,  at  whose  com 
mand  he  suffered,  and  strong  in  conscious 
innocence,  appealing  to  the  eternal  Molpa 
which  will  do  him  right  at  last." 

Full  as  it  may  be  of  contradictions  and 
perplexities,  this  obscure  belief  Paul  recog 
nized,  as  lying  at  the  very  core  of  our 
spiritual  natures,  and  though  he  drifted 
far  out,  on  the  sea  of  doubt,  never  was  the 
golden  chain  of  his  mother's  prayer  broken — 
always  it  bound  him,  to  that  sure  and  stead- 
anchor,  "  God  is  love,"  though  link  after  link 
loosened,  for,  like  a  moth  eager  to  burn  his 
gossamer  wings,  the  youth  played  about  the 
false  lights,  that  showed  him,  not  the  "  Father 
of  the  fatherless,"  but — Blankness.  He  had 
not  made  many  friends  in  the  city.  Mr.  Gil- 


,5 8  UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS. 

Dert,  Mr.  Elliott,  and  the  minister  at  the 
chapel  which  he  attended  on  a  Sunday  and 
on  an  occasional  week-day  evening,  were 
about  all,  though  he  could  number  a  few 
others  ;  at  least,  there  were  two  or  three 
{§ces  that  lit  up,  when  Paul  lingered  for  a 
word,  among  them,  the  old  woman's  at 
whose  stall  he  was  wont  to  buy  his  noon 
time  lunch. 

"  Somehow,"  she  would  say,  (speaking  of 
Paul,)  "  the  look  of  him  does  me  good  ;  he's 
so  open-faced  like;  there  ain't  no  evil  things 
a  stirrin'  his  heart,  like  as  there  is  in  some  of 
'em  who  stop  to  trade  with  me,"  and  then, 
she  would  lay  aside  the  largest  and  ripest  of 
her  little  stock  of  apples,  or  most  tempting 
looking  ginger  cake,  reflecting,  "  them's 
what  he  mostly  chooses." 

There  was  a  little  lame  girl  too,  who 
watched  for  his  coming,  every  night  and 
morning,  from  her  place,  on  the  hotel  steps, 
which  Paul  passed  on  his  way  to  and  from 
work.  In  early  spring  and  summer,  the  child 
sold  violets,  arid  in  autumn  and  winter,  cot- 


UPLANDS  AATL    LOWLANDS.  159 

ton  laces,  and  round-headed  pins.  "  He  al 
ways  smiles  at  me,"  she  said.  And  sometimes 
he  dropt  a  few  pennies  into  her  little  dirty 
hand,  (she  never  guessed  what  hard-earned 
pennies  they  were,)  taking  a  violet  or  two  in 
exchange,  violets  which  whispered  memo 
ries  to  him,  in  strains  sweet  as  poem  or 
song. 

Paul  was  liked,  also,  by  the  men  who 
worked  at  the  establishment,  and  by  his  fel 
low  lodgers  at  Mrs.  Forbes,  whom  we  must 
not  forget  in  numbering  his  friends,  though 
alas !  not  many  would  have  cared  to  call  her 
thus,  for  we,  the  sinful,  are  so  prone  to  for 
get  the  teaching  of  the  "  sinless  One,"  and  to 
pass  by  the  erring  and  the  wretched,  walking 
on  the  other  side — what  from  ? — Principle 
or  Pride?  But  Mrs.  Forbes  had  changed 
greatly  since  Paul  first  saw  her ;  her  sloven- 
finess  had  altered  to  tidiness,  her  torn 
dresses  were  mended,  the  shrill  voice  had 
softened,  and  sometimes  in  place  of  the 
hollow  laugh,  sounded  a  verse  of  some  song 
learned  in  childhood,  or  hymn  tune,  caught 


[<5o  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

at  the  evening  meetings  which  Paul  had  per. 
suaded  her  to  attend,  and  where  she  had 
heard  of  Him,  the  Lord  Christ,  who  looking 
not  merely  on  the  disciple  band,  but  on  out 
cast  and  sin-branded  too,  said,  "  Ye  are  my 
friends,  if  ye  do  what  I  command  you." 

"  And,  I  am  trying  to  do  as  He  commands," 
she  told  Paul  one  evening  in  the  early 
spring,  when  he  ran  down  into  her  kitchen 
before  going  to  his  room,  saying,  "  I  have 
brought  you  a  few  violets,  Mrs.  Forbes," 
which  he  had  done,  because  the  woman's 
face,  the  hungry  look  out  of  her  eyes,  had 
haunted  him  all  day. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  little  flow 
ers,  perhaps  the  longing  for  sympathy,  that 
emboldened  her  to  say  those  words,  "  I  am 
trying,"  and  gave  her  courage  to  add,  "  It's 
you  I  have  to  thank,  Mr.  Foster,  for  it  was 
you  who  started  me  to  wish  to  be  a  better  wo 
man.  You  see,  it  was  that  night  you  came, 
years  ago  now,  when  you  gave  me  the  flowers 
Do  you  remember?  They  looked  at  me  so 
kindly,  the  pure  little  things.  As  I  went  dmvn 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  j6l 

stairs,  something  kept  saying  in  my  heart 
'  God  sent  them/  and,  I  had  net  seen  a  flow 
er,  a  real  sunshine,  out-door  flower, 
for,  I  can't  tell  you  how  long  before. 
Well,  I  kept  them  fresh  for  a  week,  and  aL 
that  time  they  preached  and  preached  to 
me,  making  me  think  of  the  days  when  I 
was  a  girl ;  but,  by  and  by,  they  faded,  and  I 
tried  to  forget  what  they  had  said,  but  I 
could  not.  Then,  the  winter  came,  and 
one  frosty  night  you  said,  (I  remember  it  as 
though  it  were  but  yesterday,)  '  Why  don't 
you  go  to  meeting,  Mrs.  Forbes,  in  the  chap 
el  just  round  the  corner?'  and  I  never  liked 
to  say  no  to  you,  so  I  went, — went  off  and  on 
for  a  year  or  more,  liking  it  better  every 
time,  for  you  know  what  I  heard  there,  as 
you  go  yourself  sometimes,  Mr.  Foster;' 
and  the  woman's  pale,  care-worn  face  lit  up 
as  she  repeated,  "  You  know  what  I  heard, 
about  Him,  the  Lord  Christ,  who  calls  the 
weary  and  heavy  laden  to  come  to  Him,  and 
find  rest,"  and  her  voice  grew  strangely 
gentle,  as  she  whispered,  "  I  am  trying  to 


j62  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

come,  but,  oh,  Mr.  Foster,  I  am  such  a 
sinner." 

And  Paul,  though  he  was  outside  of  'the 
peace  of  believing,  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
told  the  old,  old  story,  of  Christ  and  His  for 
giving  love,  the  story  he  had  heard  his 
mother  tell  so  often  when  he  was  a  little 
child,  had  heard  his  father  tell  too,  when  he 
was  a  growing  boy.  Softly  he  said,  "  All  you 
have  to  do,  Mrs.  Forbes,  they  say"  (and  so 
eager  was  she  for  what  followed,  she  did 
not  heed  those  two  words,  which  fell  so  sad 
ly  on  Paul's  own  heart,  crying  out  for  a 
belief  of  his  own,)  "  is  just  to  give  your  heart 
to  Him,  and  to  trust  and  love  Him  as  a 
child  trusts  and  loves  its  father  and 
mother."  Those  last  words  Paul  spoke  con 
fidently,  so  well  he  knew  what  love  and 
trust  in  earthly  parent  meant. 

And  then,  seeing  the  hungry  look  on  Mrs. 
Forbes's  face  again  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you 
a  story  I  read  only  this  very  day,  from  a 
printed  paper,  that  came  wrapped  about  a 
manuscript  I  am  illustrating.  It  was  of  j 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  161 

v* 

attle  girl,  scarcely  six  summers  old,  whose 
teacher  had  been  telling  her  of  Jesus,  and  His 
precious  blood,  that  was  shed  to  wash 
away  sin,  and  who  as  the  teacher  ceased 
speaking  said,  '  I  have  diven  my  heart  to 
Him/  and  then  when  she  was  asked,  "  If 
you  have  given  it  to  Him,  what  will  He  do 
with  it?'  the  child  replied,  in  a  low  whisper, 
'  Why  !  He  'es  dot  it  /'  " 

"  He  has  got  it !"  repeated  Mrs.  Forbes. 
"  If  He  has  got  it,  He  will  keep  it.  Surely 
he  never  will  let  Satan  take  it  from  Him." 
This  she  said,  as  though  speaking  to  herself, 
adding  aloud,  as  she  looked  at  Paul,  "  It 
would  be  a  blessed  thing  to  know,  and  be 
sure,  He  had  one's  heart." 

"  Yes,  so  '  they  say]  "  Paul  answered,  al 
most  bitterly,  and  he  left  her,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

He  went  straight  up  to  his  little  room, 
his  head  aching,  his  heart  throbbing  with 
questions  waiting  to  be  answered.  What 
right  had  he  to  talk  thus  to  Mrs.  Forbes, 
he,  who  had  never  really  given  his  heart 


164  UPLANDS  A.VD  LOIVLAXDS 

to  the  Saviour,  of  Whose  love  he  ha'l  heard 
all  his  life  long,  and  life  looks  long,  to  ? 
young  man  of  twenty. 

What  right  had  he  to  tell  her  all  she  had 
to  do  was  to  trust  ? 

What  is  it  to  trust  ?  he  then  asked  him 
self,  and  the  enigma  questions  that  had 
been  opened  to  him,  through  printed  <• 
or  sceptic's  words,  seemed  to  flood  in  and 
drown  the  old  belief  in  which  his  father 
and  mother  rested,  the  child-like  trust  he 
had  just  unfolded  to  Mrs.  Forbes.  The 
faith  the  Bible  taught,  how  could  he  rec 
oncile  it  with  the  '  No  faith,'  of  philosophers 
and  materialists?  How  with  the  '  Bel! 
nothing*  theories  of  those  scientific  enquirers 
who,  setting  aside  the  once  granted  "  sphere 
of  theology,"  to  deal  with  the  spiritual  un 
known — the  once  accorded  "  right  of  philoso 
phy,  to  ascertain  how  the  movements  of 
thoughts  and  feelings,  originated  in  the  un 
seen  and  impalpable  soul,"  have  "  pressed 
science,  through  sphere  after  sphere,  until 
she  has  arrogated  to  herself  the  chief  place 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  165 

and  proclaimed  her  readiness  to  elucidate  all 
problems,  not  only  in  discussions  about 
stones  or  strata,  gases,  or  elemental  influen 
ces,  but  in  those  far  more  important  enquiries, 
taking  the  question  of  the  origin  of  man 
out  of  the  hands  of  theology,  his  actions 
and  motives  out  of  the  keeping  of  the  phil 
osopher,  losing  spiritual  and  mental  king 
doms  in  the  vast  dreary  material  wilder 
ness,  of  a  world  in  which  every  thing  is 
done  on  mechanical  principles  ?"  And  yet 
while  Paul  thought  thus,  he  felt,  though  he 
could  not  express  clearly  even  to  himself, 
"  the  problem  of  the  connection  of  body 
and  soul  was  as  insoluble,  in  its  present 
form,  as  it  was  in  the  p re-scientific  ages." 
He  was  equally  unable  to  cope  with  the 
dark  suggestions  which  shut  him  away  from 
Christ,  and  God ;  he  felt  stifled,  and  crush 
ed.  "  I  cannot  endure  it  any  longer/'  he 
said  aloud,  "  I  must  know  what  I  believe/ 
and  hastily  he  turned  from  the  room  to 
which  he  had  come  only  a  few  minutes  be 
fore  for  solitude,  to  go  out,  in  search  of 
human  companionship. 


K56  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

He  was  so  lost  in  thought,  he  was  uncon 
scious  where  he  was  going,  yet  when  he 
found  himself  standing  before  the  chapel, 
and  heard  through  the  half-open  door,  the 
sound  of  a  sweet  hymn-tune  his  mother 
used  to  sing,  he  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure 
stealing  over  his  heart,  like  a  moonbeam 
breaking  in  upon  midnight  darkness,  and 
almost  he  felt  as  though  some  kind  hand 
had  led  his  steps  there,  and  half  audibly  he 
said,  "  A  Father  of  the  fatherless,"  adding, 
"  I  will  go  in,  perhaps  I  will  get  some  light 
here,  perhaps  some  one  can  help  me."  And 
all  the  time,  close  to  him,  was  One  who 
could  help,  One  waiting  to  catch  even  the 
most  faintly  whispered  "  Lord  help  me." 

The  meeting  was  nearly  over  when  Paul 
entered,  the  audience  were  so  hushed,  he 
crept  on  tip-toe  to  a  vacant  seat  near  the 
door ;  a  stranger  was  in  the  desk,  who  was 
just  closing  his  discourse,  for  all  he  said  af- 
ler  Paul  came  were  the  following  words  : 

"  There  is  not  a  beam  that  shines  from  the 
sun,  out  is  reflected  back  more  or  less  from 
every  dead  thing  on  which  it  shines.  All 


UPLANDS  AND  LO .  VLANDS.  1 67 

the  co'ors  of  the  world,  the  deep  blue  of  the 
skies,  the  varied  hues  of  the  flowers,  the 
painted  plumage  of  the  birds,  the  glistening 
shell  of  the  insect,  are  but  the  answer  that 
creation  makes  to  the  God  who  sends  His 
sun  to  shine  on  them.  The  soul  makes  its 
reply  to  God  in  a  reflection  more  suited  to 
its  own  nature,  higher  than  the  skies,  and 
more  beautiful  than  flower,  or  bird,  or  in 
sect,  for  it  is  the  reflection  of  the  holiness 
of  God,  His  own  character,  broken  indeed, 
and  shattered,  like  the  light  of  the  sun  on 
many  waters,  but  a  true  reflection,  never 
theless  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord  in  the  face 
of  Jesus  Christ.  This  responsibility  is  no 
harsh,  stern,  severe  thing,  but  a  thing  all 
love ;  it  is  the  soul's  affectionate  response, 
its  loving  reply  to  the  God  who  has  redeem 
ed  it,  *  Seek  ye  my  face  ' — '  Thy  face,  Lord, 
will  I  seek.' '  After  a  minute's  pause  the 
Minister  added,  "  Remember, 

"  Heaven  hath  not  so  many  stars, 
Nor  ocean  so  many  drops, 
Nor  the  day  light  so  many  motes, 
Nor  the  flame  so  many  sparks — 
As  He  hath  pardons  for  sin." 


j68  UPLAXDS  AXD  LOWLANDS. 

Then  followed  a  few  minutes  of  silent 
prayer,  the  benediction,  and  the  dispersing 
of  the  people,  whom  Paul  followed  out  into 
the  street,  with  a  heart  all  unlike  the  turbu 
lent  heart  with  which  he  had  come  in.  I  Ic 
hastened  back  to  his  little  room,  he  opened 
wide  the  sky-light  window,  and  standing 
with  upturned  face,  where  the  stars  could 
look  down  at  him,  softly  but  distinctly  he 
repeated  his  name,  the  name  his  mother  had 
given  him,  "  Paul  a  servant  of  Jesus  Christ," 
and  the  mild  breeze  of  the  early  spring 
night  gently  blew  the  hair  from  his  fore 
head,  so  gently,  its  touch  seemed  like  bap 
tismal  touch  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  that  had 
unfolded  for  him  that  night,  the  heart  of 
God  toward  man. 

It  was  late  when  Paul  left  the  window, 
very  late,  clouds  had  come  up  and  hid  the 
stars,  the  gentle  evening  breeze  had  chang 
ed  into  a  chill  night  wind  ;  but  in  his  heart 
there  was  a  great  peace,  a  peace  that  came 
when  the  voice  of  the  Lord  had  sound 
ed  in  his  darkened  soul,  saying,  "  Let  there 
be  light," — and — "  there  was  light" 


VII. 

rTIHE  next  morning  Paul  woke  up  with  a 
-J-  heart  lighter  than  it  had  been  for 
years,  though  perhaps  never  since  he 
was  left  an  orphan,  had  he  longed  so  much 
for  father  and  mother. 

Fie  turned  to  the  chapter  they  had  read 
oftenest,  in  that  far  by-gone  time,  when  they 
were  all  together  in  the  little  cottage  home; 
he  laid  his  hand,  his  man's  hand,  on  the 
mark  of  the  child's  fingers,  the  soiled  place 
his  father  had  shown  him,  and  then,  he  lived 
over  the  years  since — the  sin-soiled  years,  in 
which  he  had  turned  to  human  wisdom, 
rather  than  to  the  Lord's  word. 

Would  they  leave  a  mark,  a  soiled   mark 

on  the  record  of  his   life  as  the  touch   of 

his  little  hand  had  done  on  the  Bible  page? 

For  a  moment,  while  thinking  thus,  the  light 

15  (169) 


j  70  UPLANDS  AND  L 0 IV LANDS. 

and  peace  seemed  to  fade  out  of  his  heart, 
but  only  for  a  moment,  for  the  promised 
Comforter,  the  divine  in-breathing  spirit 
of  consolation,  brought  to  His  remembrance, 
new  comer  though  he  was  into  the  Shep 
herd's  fold,  the  verse,  "  Though  your  sins 
be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  sn 
though  they  be  red  like  crimson,  they  shall 
be  as  wool." 

"  White  as  snow,  O,  what  a  promise 
For  the  heavy-laden  breast ! 
When,  by  faith,  the  soul  receives  it, 
Weariness  is  changed  to  rest." 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  breakfast  bell 
rang,  and  Paul  hastened  down  stairs,  ex 
changing  a  bright  smile  with  Mrs.  Forbes 
as  he  took  his  seat — a  smile  which  revealed 
as  surely  as  words  could  have  done, 
that  like  the  little  child  of  whose  sim- 
pie  trust  in  leaving  all  to  Jesus  he  had  told 
the  evening  before,  he  was  glad,  (just  as 
Mrs.  Forbes  was,)  because  like  the  child  he 
had  given  his  heart  to  Christ,  and  could 
say  "  All  is  well,  for  He  has  got  it."  \\\, 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  j  7  x 

Paul  knew  that  the  new  life,  must  be  one  of 
warfare  from  foes  without,  and  the  mo.'e 
subtle  foes  within ;  he  knew  he  must  ever 
be  looking  away  from  self,  knew  that  if  he 
would  keep  near  to  the  Saviour,  he  must 
out  of  much  weakness,  and  great  heart- 
need,  ever  be  reaching  up  to  strength. 

A  pile  of  manuscripts  to  be  illustrated 
were  lying  on  his  table  when  he  entered 
his  little  work-room,  which  half  in  play, 
half  in  derision,  his  companions  were  wont 
to  call,  "  The  Studio."  It  was  a  tiny  place,  not 
more  than  five  or  si-x  feet  square,  partitioned 
off  from  the  outer  room  by  rough  boards, 
a  table,  high  stool,  several  portfolios  filled 
with  studies,  and  one  or  two  sketches,  and 
views  around  Tompkinsville,  were  its  only 
furniture. 

Paul  took  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  turn 
ed  over  the  manuscripts,  in  search  of  some 
thing  more  in  sympathy  with  his  feelings, 
than  the  gay  meaningless  picture  for  a  holi 
day  book,  on  which  he  had  been  working 
the  day  before.  It  was  a  heterogeneous 


i<j2  UPL  INDS  AND  LOIV LANDS. 

pile  waiting  to  be  emblematized  by  his  pen 
cil — a  child's  fairy  tale,  a  tender  poem  of 
dreaming  lovers,  a  quaint  ballad  and  volumes 
of  travel,  or  folios  of  history,  lying  side  by 
side.  Underneath  them  all,  copied  in  a 
fair  round  hand,  he  found  the  Collects  of  the 
English  church,  which  the  note  of  direc 
tions  accompanying  them  said  were  to  be 
wreathed  with  symbol  flowers  and  leaves, 
while  suggestive  illustrations  were  to  be 
drawn  for  the  opposite  pages,  all,  to  be  left 
to  the  artist's  fancy,  as  the  hand  that 
had  commenced  the  task,-  the  mind  that  nad 
planned  it,  had  ceased  to  work,  ceased  to 
plan.  Paul  selected,  "  Easter  day,"  for  his 
first  illustration.  He  was  just  commencing 
to  work,  when  a  message  came,  requesting 
him  to  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Gilbert's  office 
and  with  never  a  thought  of  all  the  morn 
ing  was  to  hold  for  him,  h«  promptly  obey 
ed  the  summons. 

"  I  have  been  looking  back,"  were  Mr. 
Gilbert's  greeting  words,  "  and  I  find  the 
five  years  you  engaged  to  serve  me,  end 


UPLANDS  JV£>  LOWLANDS. 


1/3 


shortly ;  let  me  see,  this  is  May,  and  Novem 
ber  1  think  it  was  when  you  came.3' 

Paul  bowed  in  assent,  while  his  emplover 
continued.   ' 

"  You  have  done  well,  Foster,  giving  me 
entire  satisfaction,  and  I  have  not  been,  as 
you  may  have  thought,  unmindful  of  your 
brave  struggles  to  keep  free  from  debt, 
which  is  bondage,  lad,  bondage — nor  of  your 
steady  application  to  work,  and  I  have  left 
you  to  make  your  own  way,  you  will  be 
lieve,  I  hope,  not  from  indifference,  but  be 
cause  I  knew  in  the  end,  it  would  be  better 
for  you,  and  that  if  you  had  to  strive  for 
what  you  won,  you  would  make  more  of  a 
man,  than  if  you  were  to  slip  into  a  place 
made  ready  for  you ;  but  now,  I  think  you 
will  not  be  harmed  by  a  little  helping,  so 
tell  me  frankly  your  plans  for  the  future." 
And  the  old  gentleman  looked  kindly  at  the 
young  man,  who  was  so  unlike,  except  in 
his  open  brow,  frank  smile,  and  speaking 
eyes,  to  the  ruddy-faced  lad  who  had  stood 
before  him  five  years  ago.  Paul's  reply 
15* 


!74  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

was  given  in  a  few  simple,  well-chosen 
words,  the  substance  of  which  were,  that 
if  possible,  when  the  autumn  came,  and  he 
ceased  working  at  the  stipulated  salary  for 
which  he  was  till  then  engaged,  he  hoped  to 
secure  books  to  illustrate  at  a  fair  price, 
which  would  give  him  work  for  the  early 
morning,  and  evening  hours.  He  also  hoped 
to  obtain  three  or  four  scholars  in  drawing, 
and  thus  defray  the  expense  of  a  quarter's 
lessons  in  oil  painting,  that  he  needed,  be 
fore  he  began  to  work  into  a  picture,  g: 
ing  with  color,  a  little 'study,  which,  he  said, 
"  I  hope  to  have  ready  for  the  next  sp; 
exhibition,  when,  through  Mr.  Elliott's  prom 
ised  influence,  I  think  it  will  be  entered," 
and  a  smile,  one  of  those  contradictory 
smiles,  .which  are  made  partly  of  hope, 
partly  of  fear,  flitted  across  his  face,  as  he 
added,  "  and  perhaps,  it  may  find  a  pur 
chaser." 

And  then,  overstepping  his  wonted  reti. 
cence,  he  disclosed  to  Mr.  Gilbert  the  after 
hope,  the  dream  of  his  youth,  a  year's  studv 


UPLA  VDt,  AND  LOWLANDS.  175 

and  work  in  that  far-away  city  of  art,  in  the 
mother-land  of  picture  makers.  As  he  con- 
c.uded,  the  color  suddenly  faded  from  his 
face,  the  animation  was  gone  from  voice  and 
eye,  for  like  the  touch  of  an  icy-cold  hand, 
came  the  thought,  What  then  ?  Return  to 
his  own  country ;  but  who  would  there  be 
to  welcome  him ;  who  to  rejoice  over  his 
success?  (for  Paul  was  young,  and  success  is 
wont  to  crown  the  visions  of  youth ;)  and 
quick  as  only  thought  can  fly,  he  stood  be 
side  that  lonely  gnve  on  the  dreary  hill 
side  ;  beside  that  other  grave  in  the  shelter 
ed  nook,  close  by  where  the  rippling  water 
flowed  ;  and  he  realized  the  youth  of  scarce 
twenty-one  years,  that  those  silent  places 
were  the  only  homes  he  had,  all  the  broad 
world  over.  But  he  realized  another  truth 
that  morning,  the  blessed  truth,  that  wher 
ever  he  went,  he  had  a  spirit  Home  now, 
that  his  heart  was  in  the  keeping  of  the 
Lord  Christ.  Perhaps  Mr.  Gilbert  guessed 
something  of  what  was  passing  in  Paul's 
mind,  for  he  said,  with  unusual  kindness, 


1 76  UPLANDS  ASD  I.O  II  I..IXDS. 

"A  well  pianned  future,  Foster;  I  prophecy 
for  it  a  sequel  of  success.  If  you  go  as  you 
hope  abroad  for  study,  many  I  doubt  not 
will  welcome  your  return,  but  none  with 
more  pleasure  than  I ;  and  now  that 
nave  given  me  your  confidence,  I  will  tell 
you  some  plans  I  have  been  making,  though 
they  are  much  the  same  as  your  own  ;  first, 
we  will  annul  our  agreement  for  the  coming 
six  months,  and  after  next  week  I  will  j>av 
you  according  to  the  work  you  do;  this  will 
greatly  increase  your  means."  And  Mr.  Gil 
bert  stretched  his  hand  across  the  table,  tak 
ing  up  a  roll  of  manuscript  as  he  said. 

•  These  are  to  be  illustrated.  I  will  en 
trust  them  to  you,  paying" — and  he  men 
tioned  a  liberal  sum.  "  You  will,  thus,  soon 
be  able  to  take  the  lessons  you  desire  in  oils, 
and  who  knows,  but  that  instead  of  waiting 
till  spring,  your  study  may  be  a  picture 
ready  for  the  autumn  exhibition  !" 

As  Paul  began   to  utter  his  thanks,  Mr. 
Gilbert  interrupted  him,  saying, 

"  Wait,  I  have  another  piece  of  good  for- 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS 


177 


tune  to  tell  you  ;  my  niece,  Miss  Murray,  is 
wanting  a  drawing  teacher,  and  I  have  re 
commended  you.  You  had  better  call  on 
her  mother  this  afternoon,  so  I  will  excuse 
you  from  work.  Here  is  the  address,"  and 
he  handed  Paul  a  card,  saying,  "  As  for  the 
more  distant  future,  we  will  talk  of  that  a 
little  later.  I  may  think  it  well  to  advance 
you  a  certain  sum,  sufficient  for  that  Euro 
pean  dream,"  and  again  he  smiled  ;  "  but  we 
must  see  how  the  picture  is  received  at  the 
exhibition  first,  for,  as  I  said,  the  borrower 
is  always  in  bondage  to  the  lender,  so  I 
must  not  advance  you  money,  unless  I  see 
a  way  for  you  to  refund  it ;  and,  you  are 
unused  yet,  Foster,  to  handling  brush  and 
palette ;  you  may  find  unexpected  difficul 
ties." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Paul,  though  he  felt  no 
foreboding,  so  sure  was  he  that  color  would 
be  to  him  an  inspiration,  rather  than  a  diffi 
culty  to  be  conquered. 

"  And  now  you  may  return  to  your  morn 
ing's  work,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert,  with  a  wave 


1^8  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS, 

of  his  hand,  as  Paul  once  more  endeavored 
to  express  his  thanks. 

Paul  had  only  been  absent  from  his  work- 
table  half  an  hour,  and  yet,  how  much  hu<l 
come  to  him  in  that  time,  just  as  brief  little 
minutes  are  wont  to  come  to  us  all,  freighted 
with  life-lasting  gifts  which  leave  upon  the 
soul  marks  of  happiness  or  sorrow,  marks 
which  no  after  years  can  quite  efface,  and 
yet  only  a  few  minutes  it  takes  them  to  ac 
complish  this  work. 

Thinking  thus,  Paul's  hand  was  strangely 
unsteady  as  he  began  to  wreathe  the  Easter 
Collect ;  or,  perhaps,  it  may  have  been,  mem 
ories  of  those  lonely  far  separated  graves 
were  wakened  in  his  mind  again,  as  he  read 
the  Resurrection  morning  words ;  the  words 
that  opened  out  to  him  as  a  flowery  path, 
through  sunlit  land  the  time, 

"When  the  child  shall  find  its  mother. 
And  the  mother  finds  the  child." 

Or  it  may  have  been  the  wonderful  assur 
ance  :  "  Christ  has  overcome  death  and 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

opened  unto  us  the  gate  of  everlasting  life," 
which  was  illuminated  to  him  that  morning 
with  a  new  light  and  depth  of  meaning. 
Whatever  it  may  have  been,  his  heart  was 
thrilled  with  a  quiet  peace  and  joy  never 
known  before. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  to  really  know  it  all  comes  from  the  Father 
of  the  fatherless ; "  and  then  he  began  to 
wonder,  as  thousands  have  done  after  com 
ing  into  the  Light,  where  all  his  doubts  and 
fears  had  gone  to,  all  the  speculative  queries 
as  to  the  realness  of  the  Christian's  hope. 
Where  had  they  vanishe  I  to,  those  thoughts 
of  years?  He  could  not,  even  if  he  would, 
summon  them  up  again,  thin  and  graspless 
as  the  air  they  seemed.  Was  it  always  so  ? 
Did  just  the  coming  in  faith  -always  lead  to 
the  seeing?  Would  it  lead  at  length  to  the 
highest  vision  of  all-seeing  and  knowing  ? 
Very  softly  he  whispered — "  Yes,  for  all 
mystery  ;s  solved  in  Christ,  all  sorrow  in 
Him  finds  its  solution." 

Would  Paul's  faith  ever  cling  thus  to  the 


UPLANDS  AND  L 0  H'LAXDS. 

Lord  Christ?  It  is  such  a  cliflcrcnt  thing  to 
trust  in  the  Light  than  to  cling  in  the 
darkness ! 

While  Paul's  thoughts  were  thus  ousy, 
his  pencil  had  wreathed  the  Collect  with 
fringed  -  leaved  primroses;  but  they  were 
such  quiet  little  blossoms,  fitter  emblems  of 
patience  they  seemed  than  of  the  exultant 
joy  which  belongs  to  the  Easter-clay  ;  and  he 
interwove  his  wreath  with  open-eyed  cro 
cuses,  the  brave  little  flowers  that  push 
their  way  up  through  the  frosty  earth  ir 
earliest  spring,  bidding  us  rejoice,  for  the 
glad  world  of  blooming  flowers  will  wake 
up  soon. 

"  You  have  made  your  wreath,"  said  Mr. 
Elliott,  who  had  entered  unobserved,  and 
was  looking  over  Paul's  shoulder,  "  for  city 
dwellers;  it  bears  the  stamp,  Foster,  of  the 
last  five  years,  during  which  your  first  '  out 
door  '  glimpses  of  spring  flowers  have  been 
through  iron  railings,  enclosing  narrow 
court-yards,  with  the  inevitable  background 
of  brick  walls.  Have  you  forgotten  the 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  g  \ 

sweet  children  of  the  spring,  whose  delicate 
hues  vie  with  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells — 
the  wild  flowers,  that  are  upspringing  all 
the  broad  world  over  at  this  resurrection 
season  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  '  under 
neath  the  withered  leaves '  on  the  hill-side 
and  roadway  fair  flowers  are  growing  ?  " 

"  Forgotten  them  !  No,  indeed,"  answer 
ed  Paul,  and  for  a  second  he  closed  his  eyes, 
as  though  to  make  more  vivid  the  vision  of 
the  May  flowers  he  had  long  ago  search 
ed  through  woodland  and  meadow  to 
find. 

"  No  one  who  has  ever  sought  them,  I 
think,  can  forget  it,  Mr.  Elliott,"  he  con 
tinued.  "  I  can  hear  it  now,  the  breeze 
stirring  amid  the  boughs  of  the  forest  trees 
soon  to  be  robed  in  tender  green.  I  can  feel 
the  cool,  damp  touch  of  the  dead  leaves  we 
used  to  push  aside  as  we  looked  for  the 
little  flowers." 

More  gently  than  Paul  had  ever  heard 
him  speak,  Mr.  Elliott  said — 

"  Do  you  know  the  trailing  arbutus 
16 


j  8  2  UP  LA  NDS  A . \"D  L  O  It  'LA  .YDS. 

verse?"  and,  as  Paul  shook   his  head,  he 
repeated- 

"  Walk  life's  dark  path,  they  seem  to  say 
With  love's  divine  foreknowingt 
That  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  the  sweet  flowers  growing." 

They  were  quiet  for  a  little  while  after 
Mr.  Elliott  ceased  speaking,  till  presently 
he  began  to  question  Paul  in  regard  to  his 
interview  with  Mr.  Gilbert. 

All  this  time  Paul's  pencil  had  been  rap 
idly  moving  up  and  down  as  he  drew  the 
sketch  for  the  page  opposite  the  primrose 
and  crocus  wreathed  Collect.  It  was  only  a 
little  thing,  a  lonely  boy  walking  at  night 
fall  across  a  dreary  plain,  yet  the  boy  was 
smiling  and  looking  up,  while  in  his  hand 
he  held  a  flower,  on  which  a  ray  of  light 
from  a  far-away  star  fell,  lovingly  nestling 
in  among  the  leaves  of  the  opening  blossom. 
It  was  a  simple  design,  so  simple  forsooth, 
Mr.  Elliott  wondered  at  the  eager  look  on 
Paul's  face  as  he  bent  over  it,  for  he  did  not 
know  that  through  the  little  sketch  Paul 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  183 

expressed  in  a  shadowy  way,  half  unintel 
ligible  even  to  himself,  the  emotions  stirring 
his  heart,  neither  did  Mr.  Elliot  understand 
why  Paul  wrote  in  tiny  letters  the  words, "  A 
Father  of  the  fatherless"  in  the  corner,  where 
the  artist's  name  was  wont  to  be  inscribed. 

Yet,  though  Mr.  Elliott  was  called  by 
those  who  knew  him  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
was  not  all  out  of  sympathy  with  Paul  that 
morning,  as  the  brief  verse  he  had  quoted 
plainly  revealed. 

Just  as  the  sketch  was  completed  the 
noon-time  "  rest  hour "  was  heralded  in  by 
twelve  sharp  strokes  from  a  neighboring 
church  clock. 

"  No  more  work  for  me  to-day,"  said 
Paul,  as  he  laid  aside  pencil  and  paper, 
"  though  this  is  not  work,  but  pleasure,"  he 
added,  as  he  smiled  at  the  little  picture,  as 
though  the  mute  thing  could  comprehend 
his  look.  He  and  Mr.  Elliott  passed 
through  the  outer  room  and  into  the  street 
together,  lingering  for  a  few  words  at  the 
corner,  where  their  ways  separated. 


1 94  \JJLA  NDS  A  ND  L  0  WLANDS. 

"  You  must  write,  Foster,"  said  Mr. 
Elliott,  '  to  your  old  friend  and  school- 
master,  and  tell  him  of  your  good  fortune." 

"  Old  friend  ! "  how  pleasant  the  term 
sounded  to  Paul,  who  had  so  few  friends ;  it 
often  made  him  sad  to  think  how  few,  for 
many  changes  had  come  to  those  he  had 
left  in  Tomkinsville. 

"You  would  scarcely  meet  a  familiar  face 
were  you  to  walk  through  our  village 
street,"  kind  Mrs.  Blake  (who  had  never 
lost  her  interest  in  him)  wrote,  "  so  many 
of  the  mill  hands  have  gone,  some  to  seek 
more  lucrative  situations,  while  others  have 
passed  to  the  '  still  place  up  on  the  hill 
side.'  " 

The  minister  too,  and  his  little  wife,  had 
drifted  on  the  ever-changing  tide  of  ; 
ishes,   to  a  larger,  though   perchance  not 
happier,  home. 

And  Mr.  Gray  had  left  the  Academy  long 
ago  ;  yet  Paul  knew,  spite  all  these  changes, 
there  were  hearts  who  would  be  glad  to 
tear  of  his  well-doing  ;  and  as  he  parted 


UPLANDS  AiTD  LOIVLAA  VS.  185 

from  Mr.  Elliott  he  thought,  "  I  will  write 
and  tell  Mrs.  Blake,  and  Mr  Gray  too,  of 
my  plans,  and  the  other  great  and  good 
news,  the  Peace  I  have  found  at  last ;  and 
then  he  began  to  wonder  whether  all  their 
interest  in  him,  a  lonely,  desolate,  orphan 
boy,  came  from  their  much  pondering  of 
that  word  of  Christ's,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  do 
it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  breth 
ren,  ye  do  it  unto  me ;  "  and  their  kindness 
never  had  seemed  half  so  precious  to  Paul 
as  it  did  now  that  he  recognized  it  as  a  tri 
bute  of  love  to  Him — their  Lord  Christ. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts  the  walk  to 
Mrs.  Forbes'  house  seemed  over  in  a  minute. 
As  he  entered  the  door,  she  called  out, 
"  What's  the  matter,  that  you  are  home  at 
this  time  of  day?" 

And  he  had  only  half  told  her  the  history 
of  his  interview  with  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  the 
call  he  was  to  make  on  Mrs.  Murray,  before, 
woman  like,  she  had  started  off  upstairs,  to 
take  a  motherly  look  at  his  somewhat  scan 
ty  supply  of  collars  and  wristbands,  "which 
1 6* 


1 86  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

may  need  buttons,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
as  Paul  remonstrated,  saying,  "  They  are  all 
in  order  Mrs.  Forbes,"  though,  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  a  faint  tinge  of  col 
or  flushed  his  face,  as  he  thought  of  his 
much  worn  best  suit,  and  contrasted  it  with 
Mr.  Elliott's  shining  broad  cloth,  and 
smooth  linen.  It  was  over  in  a  moment, 
and  yet  it  had  dawned,  and  dawn  leads  on 
to  full  light,  the  knowledge,  that  he  was 
very  shabby — a  penniless  young  man. 

"  But  we  have  something  better  than 
clothes  and  money,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Forbes, 
with  a  glowing  face,  as  an  hour  later  he  ran 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  bid  her  good-bye. 


VIIL 

IT  was  a  long  walk  to  Mrs.  Murray's, 
longer  than  Paul  had  thought,  yet  he 
felt  half  regretful,  as  he  noted  the  shining 
numbers  on  the  door  plates  were  nearing 
the  one  written  on  the  card  Mr.  Gilbert 
had  given  him. 

Except  on  Sundays,  and  during  the  brief 
noon  hours,  he  was  so  unused  to  being  free 
to  enjoy  the  full  glory  of  mid-day  beauty, 
every  step  of  the  way  had  been  a  pleasure. 
The  day  too  was  very  lovely,  one  of  those 
early  spring  days,  when  even  in  the  city,  a 
halo  of  soft  brightness  seems  to  enshroud 
all  unsightly  things  ;  when,  spite  the  rum 
bling  of  wheels,  the  dull  ceaseless  roar  of 
busy  struggling  life,  the  little  birds  chirped 
so  cheerily,  their  happy  notes  refused  to  be 


1 88  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

merged  and  lost  amid  the  discordant  sounds 
Over  the  leafless  gaunt  branches  of  the  dis 
robed  trees  too,  which  bordered  the  wide 
avenue  leading  to  Mrs.  Murray's  house,  a 
delicate  veil  of  tender  misty  green  rested, 
while  the  court-yards  were  bright  with  up- 
springing  grass.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  pleas 
ure,  also,  to  lift  his  gaze  up  to  the  deep  blue 
above,  which  imparted  an  intense  sense  of 
rest  to  Paul's  soul  that  day,  even  though  it 
was  framed  in  by  long  blocks  of  monoto 
nous  brown-stone  dwellings. 

"  I  am  glad  it  is  so  clear,"  he  said, 
"though  I  know  clouds  must  come,"  and  as 
he  walked  along  with  uplifted  eyes,  before 
his  heart's  gaze  passed  a  vision  of  a  sunset 
the  spring-time  before  his  father  died  ;  he  re 
called  how  one  moment,  the  clouds  were 
glowing  with  golden  and  rosy  hues,  the 
next  were  dark  and  gloomy  ;  how  they  came 
trooping  one  after  the  other  from  over  be 
yond  the  hills,  and  then  vanished  almost  as 
suddenly  as  they  came.  Why  did  they 
come?  Where  did  they  go?  Paul  could 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  189 

not  answer  his  own  questions,  but  it  was 
the  sun  that  dispelled  them,  that  I  know  he 
thought,  with  a  smile,  as  he  stood  before  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Murray's  spacious  home,  and, 
"  if  the  will  is  the  sun  of  the  mind,"  only 
when  that  is  feeble,  can  clouds  come  to  ob 
scure  the  light.  But  he  shook  his  head 
after  a  second's  thought,  at  his  own  logic, 
for  he  was  walking  now,  in  the  rays  of  the 
light  that  recognized  that  there  are  clouds, 
which  only  faith  can  illumine,  clouds, 
which  no  strength  of  man's  unaided  will, 
can  dispel,  which  can  only  vanish  as  we  pos 
sess  that  which  is  beyond  good  fortune, 
even  the  light  that  knows  no  horizon  boun 
daries,  but  shines  ever  with  a  calm  peaceful 
beam  in  the  soul. 

The  opening  of  the  door,  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice,  as  he  asked  for  Mrs.  Mur 
ray,  and  handed  Mr.  Gilbert's  card  to  the 
waiter,  (whose  well  trained  eye  seemed  to 
take  in  with  one  glance,  the  worn  coat,  the 
patched  boots,  and  mended  gloves,  which 
Mrs.  Forbes  had  pronounced  all  right,)  re- 


jOO  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

called  Paul  somewhat  harshly  to  the  pres 
ent 

Yet,  who  can  tell,  but  that  the  hasty,  so 
abruptly  ended  look  up  toward  the  over 
arching  blue,  the  brief  glimpse  of  budding 
trees,  and  upspringing  grass,  had  yielded 
sympathy  as  sweet  and  rest-laden  to  his 
soul,  as  he  could  have  found  out  under  the 
expanse  of  sky,  looked  at  from  hill-top  or 
plain,  or  from  the  generous  leafing  of  num 
berless  trees,  out  where  the  trees  grow  in 
forest  freedom,  or  from  the  thousand  grass 
blades  nestled  close  to  one  another,  in  the 
broad  meadows,  that  reached  lar  up  the  sun- 
lighted  hill  slopes  that  surrounded  his  early 
home.  For,  just  here,  is  manifested  the 
great  tenderness  of  the  Father,  who  can, 
through  nature,  speak  to  His  children,  not 
only  in  the  quiet  country,  but  in  the  noisy 
city  as  well. 

And  Paul  was  as  truly  lifted  into  spiritual 
harmony  with  the  cloudless  blue  of  the  sky, 
his  thoughts  meanwhile  becoming  as  pure, 
deep,  and  firm  as  they  would  have  done  had 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  \  9  j 

his  gaze  been  farther  reaching,  for  as  some 
one  has  well  said, 

"  Like  a  prayer  offered  up  in  the  midst  of 
e very-day  life,  these  short  fond  gazes  at 
nature,  have  something  inconceivably  sooth 
ing  and  beautiful  in  them." 

As  he  followed  the  softly  treading  servant 
through  the  long  hall,  Paul  felt  almost  as 
though  he  were  taking  an  inlook  into  some 
undreamed-of  encha-nted  place,  for,  like  fairy 
land  seemed  the  glimpses  he  caught  through 
wide  open  doors  of  spacious  rooms,  while 
the  tempered  light,  the  sweet  odor  of 
flowers,  and  rippling  song  of  birds,  en 
hanced  the  magical  charm.  It  seemed  so 
unlike  the  world  where  he  lived  and  work 
ed,  and  yet  he  knew,  only  the  turning  a 
corner  or  two,  hardly  farther  than  a  stone's 
throw  off,  from  all  this  beauty,  wealth  and 
luxury,  were  desolate  homes,  dreary  tene 
ment  houses,  where  lived  and  died  too,  suf 
fering  poverty-stricken  people,  who  scarcely 
ever  knew  the  coming  of  a  flower,  a  bird 
song,  or  the  breath  of  sweet  odor  to  stea) 


jQ2  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

with  tender  soothing  into  their  nigged  li 
As  these  thoughts  came  to  him,  he  trem 
bled,  for  was  it  coming  back,  'he  old 
query,  "Is  He  a  God  of  love?"  and  thin 
Paul  started  at  his  own  footfall,  so 
heavily  it  fell  upon  the  soft  carpet,  which 
smothered  all  ordinary  sound  even  of  men's 
tread.  Somehow,  he  felt,  as  though  by 
stepping  hard  he  could  crush  out  the  vivid 
contrast  of  his  present  surroundings  with 
the  outside  world,  and  he  smiled  at  the 
creaking  of  his  own  oft-patched  boots, — 
smiled,  while  he  seemed  to  hear,  repeated 
by  an  unseen  whisperer,  the  verse,  "  The 
foxes  have  holes,  the  birds  of  the  air  have 
nests,  but  the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where 
to  lay  his  head,"  for  though  Paul  did  not 
then  define  it,  he  recognized  the  great  near 
ness,  that  poverty,  suffering,  and  even  home- 
lessness,  gives  to  those  who  know  through 
the  patient  enduring  of  them,  peculiar  inti 
macy  with  the  earthly  life  of  Him,  who 
knows  all  about  such  needs.  So,  just  while 
passing  from  door  to  door,  the  Father  solved 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


193 


the  question,  "  Can  He  be  love,  and  yet,  let 
all  these  sharp  contrasts  in  life  exist  ?"  Mak 
ing  it  plain  to  Paul,  that  while  all  are  pre 
cious  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  Christ,  on  the 
poor  and  sorrowful  He  looks  with  special 
tenderness — the  tenderness  of  having  shared 
every  hardship  they  can  know.  Which  then 
is  the  richest  heritage,  poverty  and  suffer 
ing,  or  wealth  and  prosperity  ?  he  thought, 
just  as  he  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Murray. 

He  had  no  time  to  answer  his  questio: 
but,  he  never  was  troubled  again  by  the 
seeming  injustice  of  the  unchosen  positions 
and  destinies  allotted  to  men  in  this  world, 
he  always  felt  satisfied  to  leave  the  enigma 
of  "  Why,  is  it  thus,"  with  the  Lord,  "  who 
knows." 

Mrs.  Murray  was  a  gentle,  pale-faced 
lady,  with  a  soft  low  voice ;  one  of  those 
dainty  ladies,  whom  we  only  find  in  homes 
of  luxury ;  everything  about  her  from  the 
tiny  slippered  foot,  to  the  vhite  jeweled 
hand,  from  the  graceful  folds  of  the  silver 
17 


,  gj.  UPLANDS  AXD  L  0 II' I..  I  .YDS. 

grey  silk  she  wore,  (the  silk  too  costly  to 
rustle)  to  the  faint  pink  bows  of  gauzy  rib 
bon,  that  were  half  concealed  in  the  gossa 
mer  lace  of  her  cap,  seemed  in  some  magical 
\vuv,  to  share  in  the  charm  which  pervaded 
her  every  motion,  yet  it  was  a  charm,  unde 
fined  as  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

She  rose  to  meet  Paul  as  he  entered,  ex 
tending  her  hand  with  that  nameless  grace, 
which  is  the  peculiar  possession  of  the- 
gently  reared,  and  which  no  outward  polish 
can  ever  quite  successfully  counterfeit.  \Vi 
all  know  what  it  is,  that  strange  little  some 
thing  in  manner,  that  money  cannot  buy, — 
the  something,  which  greets  us  now  and 
then  from  shabbily  -  robed  gentlewomen, 
"  the  lady's  way  of  shaking  hands,"  not  dia 
monds  and  sparkling  jewels  can  teach  it,  not 
broad  estates  or  coupons,  and  yet,  as  Paul 
met  Mrs.  Murray,  the  true  gentleman-h 
(open  and  free  to  all,  just  as  the  true  lady- 
likeness  is,)  shown  in  his  manner,  and  while 
she  was  a  lady  by  the  right  of  wealth  and  a 
life  spent  in  the  enjoyment  of  luxury  and 


UP  LA  ND  S  A  ND  L  0  W 'LA  NDS.  \  g  5 

ease,  he  as  truly  was  a  gentleman  by  the 
possession  of  a  soul,  pure  in  thought,  word 
and  deed. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Foster,"  were  Mrs 
Murray's  greeting  words,  as  she  glided  into 
a  cushioned  arm  chair,  the  crimson  velvet 
covering  of  which  made  a  fitting  back 
ground  for  her  graceful  figure,  and  straight 
way,  without  once  seeming  to  observe  Paul, 
though  in  reality  not  his  slightest  movement 
escaped  her,  she  began  to  talk  of  art,  music, 
and  poetry,  and  he  listened  spell-bound,  not 
that  what  she  said  was  new  to  him,  only  the 
way  of  saying  it,  seemed  like  hearing  the 
daintiest,  softest  song  from  some  spirit-like 
bird  of  gay  plumage — a  song  wanting  per 
chance  in  the  very  notes  that  are  most  fraught 
with  true  music,  and  yet  withal,  wondrous 
sweet  and  enchaining. 

From  pictures,  she  passed  on  to  speak  of 
why  Paul  was  there,  saying  : 

"  It  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Foster,  to  be 
willing  to  instruct  my  daughter,  it  will  be 
of  such  service  to  her." 


I(j6  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

And  Paul  was  bewildered.  "  Kind  of  him  !" 
he  thought  the  kindness  was  in  Mrs.  Mur- 
ray's  employing  him,  not  in  his  giving  the 
lessons,  but  she  shook  her  head,  with  one  of 
those  strange  little  nods,  that  are  the  pre 
rogative  of  society  ladies,  as  he  attempted 
to  express  it  was  he  who  was  grateful. 
The  arrangement  of  hours  for  the  lessons, 
and  terms  of  payment,  were  next  touched 
upon  with  scarce  more  than  lightest  touch,  f<  >r, 

tl  All  will  be  satisfactory,  I  am  quite  sure, 
Mr.  Foster,"  the  lady  asserted;  "and  Mon 
day  at  eleven,  you  will  come,  and  my 
daughter,  Miss  Agnes,  will  be  ready  for 
you.  And  now  perhaps,"  she  continued,  "if 
you  can  spare  an  hour  from  your  hurried 
life,  for  I  know  you  are  occupied  every  mo 
ment  of  the  day,  in  drawing  the  exquisite 
little  sketches  which  delight  us  indolent 
mortals,  "  do,  I  beg  you,  spend  it  in  the  pic 
ture  gallery  ;"  and  th  js,  she  indicated  to 
Paul,  it  was  time  for  his  call  to  end,  gently 
saying,  "  May  I  trouble  you  to  touch  the 
bell,"  and  Paul,  who  was  like  one  in  a 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  igj 

dream,  instinctively  rose,  following  the  di 
rection  of  the  lady's  look,  while  with  touch 
so  slight,  it  hardly  seemed  to  stir  the  goW 
and  crimson  silk  cord,  he  obeyed  Mrs.  Mur 
ray's  request. 

Benjamin    appeared  almost  instantly  in 
answer   to   the   summons,  and   bowed   low 
as  his  mistress  commanded, 

"  Show  Mr.  Foster  to  the  picture  gallery, 
Benjamin."  Turning  to  Paul,  she  said,  "  You 
will  not  object  to  visiting  it  alone,  Mr.  Fos 
ter,  but  I  know  you  will  not,  for,"  and  she 
smiled,  "  the  very  presence  of  color  and 
pictures  will,  I  am  sure,  afford  all  the  com 
panionship  you  desire,"  and  then,  with  an 
other  touch  of  the  jeweled  hand,  a  gentle 
reminder,  "  Do  not  forget  Monday  at 
eleven,"  Paul's  first  interview  with  Mrs. 
Murray  was  over. 

She  was  correct  in  thinking  he  would  not 
be  lonely,  when  among  the  pictures  ;  correct 
in  thinking,  the  next  hour  would  be  one  of 
rare  enjoyment  to  him. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  in  a  pri- 
if* 


mS  UPLANDS  AX D  LOll'I.AXDS. 

vate  gallery,  and  very  grateful  \vns  the 
sense  of  seclusion,  and  undisturbed  leisure 
to  look  and  enjoy.  It  was  almost  the  first 
time  too,  he  had  gazed  at  pictures  by  day 
light,  as  his  visits  to  the  Autumn  and 
Spring-time  art  exhibitions,  to  which  Mr. 
Elliott  always  sent  him  a  ticket  of  admis 
sion,  were  made  generally  in  the  evening. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  gallery  seve 
ral  times,  hardly  knowing  where  to  begin  to 
look.  He  felt  like  a  child  suddenly  left  free 
from  restraint,  in  the  midst  of  gay  bloom 
ing  flower-beds,  whose  little  hands  touch 
first  one,  and  then  another  of  the  opening 
beauties,  irresolute  which  to  choose,  and 
after  all,  selects  some  modest  "  wee  crimson- 
tipped  daisy,"  or  lowly  growing  lily  bell, 
rather  than  blushing  rose  or  stately  cameliu, 
for  in  the  end  it  was  a  simple  picture  Paul 
lingered  before — an  unframed  picture,  that 
stood  upon  a  richly  carved  easel,  just  where 
the  strongest  light  that  shone  into  the  gallerj 
could  fall  upon  it.  What  was  it  that  attract 
ed  him  to  choose  thus,  while  the  walls  on 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  199 

either  side  were  hung  with  massive  gilded 
framed  treasures  ? — paintings  by  old  masters, 
side  by  side  with  the  achievements  of  mod 
ern  artists,  wonderful  views  of  strange  lands, 
Blowing  reflections  of  sunset,  and  sunrise 
glories,  snow  clad  hills,  rainbow-banded 
icebergs  floating  through  the  dark  green 
of  mid  ocean  waves  ;  flowery  vales  there 
were  too.  Portraits  also  of  far-famed  musi 
cians,  laurel  crowned  poets,  and  world-re 
nowned  picture  painters,  why  did  Paul  turn 
from  all  these  to  stand  before  the  unframed 
canvas  ?  He  searched  the  leaves  of  the 
printed  catalogue  he  held  to  find  the  artist's 
name,  to  find  the  title  of  the  picture,  but 
neither  artist's  name  nor  picture  was  re 
corded  there. 

It  was  a  simple  composition,  though  rich 
in  color,  portraying  the  fanciful,  yet  pretty 
custom  described  in  Moore's  Lalla  Rookh, 
of  the  Eastern  maidens,  who  are  wont  to 
test  the  fate  of  their  absent  loved  ones,  by 
launching  a  lighted  lamp  on  the  rivers  of 
their  country.  The  picture  represented  "  a 


200  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

dreary  solitude,  where  no  sign  of  human 
habitations  were  visible,  where  the  rocky 
banks  of  the  river  looked  dark  and  deso 
late  against  the  twilight  of  the  sky.  Kneel 
ing  down  in  an  easy  attitude,  a  young  girl, 
earnestly  watched  her  tiny  lamp,  burning 
brightly  as  it  passed  down  the  stream, 
throwing  a  radiance  on  its  surface,  and  au 
guring  well  for  its  successful  voyage ;  above 
her  shone  a  brilliant  star,  indicative  of  hope, 
which  also  cast  its  reflection  on  the  river 
from  the  horizon  to  the  foreground,  fore 
shadowing  the  course  that  her  lamp  seera 
ed  disposed  to  take.  The  head  01  the 
maiden  was  finely  modeled,  though  the 
mass  of  dark  hair  caused  it  to  look  some 
what  large,  the  face  was  very  beautiful, 
though  a  sad  almost  anxious  expression 
shone  on  it,  which  was  necessary  to  retain 
the  point  of  the  story,  on  which  it  was 
founded." 

Paul  could  not  forget  all  through  the  re 
maining  hours  of  the  day  the  far  away 
yet  tender  look  of  that  pictured  face ;  not 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  2OI 

even  as  he  walked  through,  the  crowded 
streets  did  it  leave  him,  and  when  late  art 
night  he  was  alone  in  his  little  room,  it 
came  back.  "  I  cannot  tell  why,"  he  said, 
but  something  in  the  X)k  of  those  eyes 
has  made  my  mother  seem  near.  He  fell 
asleep  thinking  of  it,  waking  at  midnight, 
from  a  life-like  dream,  in  which  he  had 
seemed  to  be  walking  by  the  lake-side  once 
again,  just  as  he  used  to  walk  when  a  little 
boy,  holding  his  mother's  hand  tightly,  while 
they  looked  out  over  the  placid  water,  on 
which  a  silvery  ray  of  light  shone,  falling 
from  the  crescent  moon,  and  then,  before 
him,  seemed  to  float  a  fairy  child,  with  eyes 
like  those  that  looked  from  the  picture, — a 
beckoning  child,  who  vanished  just  as  the 
oioon  slipped  away  behind  the  hills. 


IX. 

THE  days  intervening  between  his  call, 
and  the  Monday  on  which  the  draw 
ing  lessons  to  Miss  Murray  were  to 
begin,  passed  rapidly  to  Paul ;  indeed  he 
could  hardly  believe  as  he  ran  up  the  broad 
stone-steps  leading  to  the  house,  and 
followed  Benjamin  through  the  long  hall, 
that  almost  a  week  had  gone  by  since  he 
there.  He  was  shown  into  the  same  room  as 
then,  where  awaiting  his  coming,  he  found 
Mrs.  Murray,  whose  greeting  was  gentle 
and  cordial  as  on  his  previous  visit. 

After  a  few   minutes'  easy   conversation, 
she  said : 

"  We  will  go  into  the  library  and  join  my 
daughter." 

Paul  dreaded  more  than  he  was  willing  to 
acknowledge  even  to  himself,  the  introduc- 

(202) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


203 


uon  to  Miss  Murray,  and,  half  reluctantly  he 
followed  her  mother,  for  he  was  so  unused  to 
ladies'  society,  and  the  dwellers  in  these  ave 
nue  mansions  seemed  to  him  such  sunshine, 
picture-like  creations,  viewing  them  as  he 
had  only,  passing  to  and  fro  on  the  broad 
thoroughfares  of  the  city,  or  alighting  from 
carriage  or  phaston,  to  trip  with  dainty 
steps  into  shops  whose  windows  seemed 
like  kaleidoscopes,  with  their  display  of 
bright  colors  and  wondrous  fabrics.  And 
while  Paul  realized,  Miss  Murray  would 
merely  regard  him  in  the  light  of  a  drawing- 
master,  he  had  been  painfully  conscious  all 
the  morning  of  his  worn  clothes,  and  un 
polished  manners. 

But  he  forgot  all  about  himself  the  mo 
ment  he  stood  before  her,  forgot  everything 
except  that  the  eyes  which  had  haunted 
him  ever  since  he  had  looked  upon  the 
pictured  face  the  week  before,  were  now 
fixed  upon  him,  kindly  shining  with  the  full 
light  of  a  breathing,  living  soul, — and,  that 
a  voice,  clear  as  the  note  of  fairy  bell,  uttered 


2O4  UPLANDS  AND  LOU' LANDS. 

words  addressed  to  him  in  a  soft  low  lone, 
which  Mrs.  Murray  interrupted  by  . 

"  Did  you  notice  the  portrait  of  my 
daughter,  Mr.  Foster,  when  you  visited  the 
gallery,  an  unframed  picture  standing  on  an 
easel  ?  I  fully  intended  directing  your  atten 
tion  to  it,  for  we  desire  criticism  to  test  the 
truth  of  the  likeness,  especially  from  cultur 
ed  art  observers,"  and  she  smiled  graci<>; 
at  Paul,  as  though  quite  unconscious  of  his 
being  a  penniless  youth,  with  art  education 
all  incomplete. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Paul,  "  I  noticed  it  ;"  and 
his  sentence  ended  abruptly,  which  caused 
Mrs.  Murray  to  think,  he  is  embarrassed  by 
the  new  position  in  which  he  finds  himself, 
and  which  caused  her  daughter  to  lift  her 
eyes  inquiringly  to  the  young  man's  face, 
across  which  she  saw  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
flitting,  a  smile,  that  months  afterwards  she 
remembered. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  lesson  began,  and 
for  the  next  hour  only  brief  words  were 
spoken  by  either  teacher  or  scholar,  though 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


2O5 


Mrs.  Murray  occasionally  looked  up  from 
the  volume  she  was  languidly  reading,  tc 
make  some  trifling  remark. 

Agnes  Murray  was  very  unlike  her  moth 
er,  as  Paul  discovered  the  morning  of  theii 
first  meeting,  unlike  in  character  and  appear 
ance,  yet  she  possessed  the  same  graceful 
tact  of  manner,  which  at  once  made  rich 
and  poor  feel  at  ease  with  her,  though  she 
was  quiet,  almost  reserved.  When  the  les 
son  was  ended,  she  exchanged  hardly  a 
word  with  Paul,  beyond  a  "good  morning," 
and,  "you  will  come  again  Mr.  Foster  on 
Wednesday." 

As  he  passed  through  the  crowded  street 
on  his  way  to  the  establishment,  (where  Mr. 
Gilbert  had  given  him  permission  to  con 
tinue  his  work  in  the  '  little  room,')  over  and 
over  Paul  asked  himself,  "  What  is  she  like  ?': 
—and  he  was  powerless  to  tell — he,  who  was 
wont  to  take  in  at  a  glance,  outline  of  form 
and  faintest  tinge  of  color.  Were  her  eyei 
blue  or  brown  ?  he  did  not  know  ;  the  shade 
of  the  wavy  plentiful  hair,  he  could  not  tell 
18 


206  UPLANDS  A.VD  LOIVLAXDS. 

it ;  nor  the  shape  of  rosy  lips  or  pure  brow 
he  only  knew  that  as  he  looked  at  her,  he 
1  wished  himself  a  better  man,"  wished  all 
those  years  of  darkling  questions,  of  distrust 
in  God's  love  had  been  differently  spent, 
"  Because  her  girlish  innocence,  the  grace 
jf  her  unblemished  pureness,  wrought  in 
him  a  longing  and  aspiring." 

And  thus  before  many  weeks  had  gone 
by,  he  had  enthroned  her  as  queen  in  the 
holy  citadel  of  his  earnest  young  heart, 
where  she  reigned  beside  the  memory  of  his 
mother  all  through  the  remaining  years  of 
his  life — 

44  Invested  with  all  the  beauties  that  she  had, 
And  all  the  virtues,  that  he  rightly  took  for  granted." 

It  was  a  new  life  he  led  for  the  next  few 
months,  a  life  fitting  the  glad  spring-time 
season,  and  the  deep  peaceful  beauty  of  the 
summer ;  for  the  lessons  did  not  end,  even 
after  the  city  was  deserted  for  the  cool  fresh 
ness  of  country  retreats  by  the  Murrays  and 
their  friends. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  207 

"  Surely  you  will  continue  the  lessons. 
Mr.  Foster,"  Mrs.  Murray  had  urged,  in 
her  winning  way ;  "coming  down  to  us 
twice  a  week  ?"  And  she  gracefully  laid  in 
Paul's  hands  a  check  more  than  sufficient  to 
defray  the  expense  of  the  not  far  car-ride  tc 
her  country  home. 

And  Paul  had  no  wish  to  say  "  No"  to 
her  request,  for  he  was  young,  and  life 
seems  such  a  glad,  beautiful  thing  to  youth, 
which  never  guesses  the  strife  back  of  that 
which  comes  as — 

"A  stirring  of  the  heart,  a  quickening  keen 
Of  sight  and  hearing  to  the  delicate 
Beauty  and  music  of  an  altered  world  ; 

That  mysterious  light, 

Which  doth  reveal,  and  yet  transform  ;  which  gives 
Destiny,  sorrow,  youth,  and  death,  and  life 
Intenser  meaning  ;  in  disquieting 
Lifts  up  ;  a  shining  light:  men  call  it  Love." 

Paul  worked  hard  those  days,  but  work 
seemed  play  to  him.  At  early  morning  and 
late  at  night  he  bent  over  pencil  sketches 
for  the  illustrated  books,  while  through  the 
mid-day  hours  he  toiled  with  never  a 


208  UPLANDS  AX D  I.Ol\'LAXDS. 

thought  of  weariness  over  the  "  little  study," 
which  was  rapidly  developing  into  a  picture 
for  the  autumn  exhibition.  Between  these 
times  of  solitary  labor  shone  like  brightest 
jewels  the  hours  of  the  drawing  lessons. 

Miss  Murray  had  proved  an  apt  scholar. 

"Soon,"  he  said  to  her  one  August  day, 
"you  will  know  all  I  can  teach." 

"  No,  not  all,"  she  replied  ;  and  Paul 
knew  what  she  meant  full  well,  for  some 
thing  besides  their  pencils  had  been  busy 
during  those  lesson  hours. 

Quite  naturally  they  had  fallen  into  the 
way  of  discussing  those  questions  which  are 
ever  up-springing  in  the  minds  of  the  young. 
They  had  talked  of  poetry  and  then  of 
science  till  they  had  passed  on  to  that,  v.  hich. 
like  a  forest-covered  mountain  uprising  from 
a  sandy  plain,  or  green  island,  in  the  midst 
of  weary  waste  of  shoreless  waters,  meets 
every  truth-seeking  soul,  offering  rest  for 
weariness — rest  beneath  the  "  shadow  of  a 
great  Rock."  And  when  they  had  talked 
of  these  deeper  needs  of  the  heart,  Paul,  who 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  209 

was  wont  .to  linger  far  behind,  while  Agnes 
murmured  to  him  sweet  strains  of  poets' 
songs,  led  the  way,  for  of  the  gospel  story 
he  could  tell  as  of  that  which  he  knew. 

And  the  young  girl  listened  eagerly  as 
she  could  have  done  had  his  words  been  of 
palace,  or  kingly  throne,  while  he  told  the 
simple  story  of  the  Bethlehem  shepherds,  or 
pictured  for  her  in  glowing  words,  (for 
though  slow  in  speech  when  telling  of  other 
things,  Paul  was  strangely  gifted  when  the 
Lord  Christ  and  the  Bible  were  his  themes,) 
the  repentant  son  returning  to  his  father's 
house,  welcomed  as  one  dead,  but  alive 
again  ;  or  the  merchant  travelling  into  a  far 
country,  entrusting  the  precious  talents  to 
the  faithful  and  unfaithful  servants.  And 
then,  sometimes  he  would  tell  of  that  land 
where  his  mother  and  father  were  with 
Christ ;  but  not  often  did  he  picture  the 
heavenly  beauty,  for  he  felt  the  something 
all  who  seek  to  bring  others  to  the  knowl 
edge  of  Christ  must  feel,  the  danger  of 
winning  souls  to  seek  Heaven,  for  the  sake 
1 8* 


2io  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

of  Heaven,  rather  than  of  leading  them  to 
the  feet  of  Him  whose  command  is  "  Come." 
Not  for  the  sake  of  after-time  glory  and 
peace ;  but  "  Come"  because  He  calls  "  Come 
to  Me,"  the  crucified,  the  despised  and  re 
jected  of  men. 

It  was  very  strange  the  way  in  which 
they  helped  one  another,  these  two  young 
creatures  who  were  so  different, —  very 
curious  the  crossing  and  the  meeting  of  the 
rays  of  light,  which  emanated  from  spiritual 
and  educational  centres  so  outwardly  tar 
separated. 

Was  there  some  golden  thread  binding 
their  destinies  together,  without  the  meet 
ing  of  which  the  peculiar  development  of 
their  characters  could  not  be  completed? 
We  cannot  tell,  for  no  theory  or  philosophy 
can  fathom  the  "  why,"  of  friendship  or 
love,  can  decipher  the  strange  hieroglyphics 
of  the  soul,  that  are  enigmas  to  one,  yet 
plain  to  another. 

They  vere  left  much  alone,  for  Mrs.  Mur 
ray  felt  hedged  in  by  the  safe  barriei 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS.  2 1 1 

custom  and  social  position  (the  barrier  which 
walls  up  many  a  cloudless  horizon  of  love ;) 
Agnes  would  never  for  a  moment  regard 
Paul  as  more  than  a  drawing  teacher,  who 
had  become  a  kind  helpful  friend,  (and  of 
Paul,  Mrs.  Murray  did  not  think,)  and  the 
mother  was  correct — Agnes  did  not  regard 
him  as  more,  nor  did  she  think  of  his  feeling 
differently  to  her  till  it  was  too  late  to  undo 
what  she  had  unconsciously  done.  For 
Paul  had  "  frhe  gift  which  speaks  the  deepest 
things  most  simply  ;"  so  for  weeks  she  never 
thought  what  were  behind  the  few  words  he 
now  and  then  let  fall.  Yet  at  the  same 
time,  by  an  intuitive  sense  of  that  which  she 
did  not  define,  she  grew  more  thoughtful, 
meeting  his  half-uttered  words  by  quickly 
passing  on  to  other  topics.  And  thus  Paul 
might  have  known  she  did  not  love  him,  yet 
he  was  content  in  the  present,  without  fear 
or  hope,  just  drifting  on  the  smooth  waters 
of  happiness. 

And  the  summer  drew  towards  its  close, 
as  all  summers  do.     It  was  the  day  of  the 


2 1 2  UP  LA  \'DS  A  .Yf>  1. 0 1!  'LA  .YDS. 

ast  lesson,  a  bright,  sunshiny  afternoon,  and 
by  Mrs.  Murray's  invitation  he  tarried  to 
spend  it  with  them  in  wandering  through 
the  flower-bordered  walks,  in  treading  the 
smooth,  velvety  lawns,  or  resting  on  rustic 
seat,  beneath  the  shade  of  graceful  elm  or 
stately  oak.  They  looked  far  off  to  the  dis 
tant  city  spires,  and  traced  the  faint  blue 
line  of  the  yet  more  distant  ocean  ;  whi: 
between  lay  green  fields,  verdant  hill-slopes 
terraced  gardens,  winding  lanes  and  bread 
roads,  while  dotted  here  and  there  were 
tasteful  villas,  old  time  farm-houses,  and 
cheerful  white-painted  box-like  homes. 

It  was  an  afternoon  full  of  delight  to  Paul, 
even  though  it  was  the  last  time  he  was  to 
be  there. 

"  Come,"  said  Agnes,  and  her  mother  did 
not  say  "nay,"  "and  I  will  show  you  what 
you  will  like  better  than  this  far  away  view.' 
So  Paul  followed  the  white-robed  maiden 
through  a  winding  pathway,  which  led 
under  the  shade  of  green  vines  and  thick 
growing  trees. 


Ul  LANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  2 1 3 

He  was  very  silent,  his  heart  was  beating 
with  memories  in  which  longings  for  his 
mother,  were  blended  in,  with  vague  recol 
lections  of  the  dream  he  had  the  night  after 
he  first  looked  upon  the  picture  of  the 
young  girl  kneeling  by  the  river,  on  which  the 
little  lamp  of  hope  had  been  just  launched. 
Why  did  it  come  back  to  him  then?  Why 
did  he  seem  to  see  the  tiny  hand  of  that 
dream-child,  beckoning  him  onward,  —  and 
yet  vanishing  when  he  reached  out  to  grasp 
it? 

He  started  involuntarily  when  Agnes 
turned  to  him,  asking,  in  the  peculiar  tone 
which  was  all  her  own,  "  Tell  me,  do  you 
feel  towards  trees  as  I  do,  Mr.  Foster?  as 
though  it  were  a  melancholy  thing  to  have 
them  fall  beneath  the  ruthless  ax,  or  to  trans 
plant  them  to  a  soil  different  from  that  in  w  hich 
they  have  grown  all  their  lives  long,  for  I 
do  not  believe  new  soil  can  ever  seem  home 
to  them.  Do  you,  Mr.  Foster  ?"  and  she  smil 
ed — but  only  for  a  second — for  Paul's  voice 
sounded  sharp,  almost  harsh  as  he  replied, 


214  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

"  You  are  right,  Miss  Murray,  a  new  soil, 
either  to  flower  or  tree,  must  seem  un-home- 
like,"  and  then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  as 
though  by  an  effort,  he  continued  to  speak 
of  trees,  saying, 

"  I  know  of  nothing  in  nature  so  formed 
to  be  the  symbol  of  desire  as  trees,  there 
is  generally  an  extraordinary  character  of 
anxious  wish  expressed  in  them,  they  stand 
so  fixed  and  cramped  in  the  earth,  and  yet 
try  so  to  extend  their  branches  as  far  as 
possible  beyond  the  bounds  of  their  roots, 
like  man,  who  with  all  his  apparent  freedom, 
is  very  much  in  the  same  state,"  and  again, 
there  was  a  faint  tinge  of  bitterness  in  Paul's 
tone. 

But  Agnes  did  not  heed  his  concluding 
words,  for  eagerly  she  exclaimed,  "  See,  this 
is  the  place,  Mr.  Foster.  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?" 

A  sudden  turn  of  the  path  had  brought 
them  into  a  wild  little  nook,  where  nature 
had  been  left  free.  A  tangled  dell  where 
flowers  grew  in  spring,  through  which 
a  stilly  stream  crept  with  faintest  ripple,  on 


UPL  A iVDS  AND  LO  W LANDS.  2 1 5 

whose  banks  alders,  willows,  wild  grape 
and  creeping  vines  were  interwoven,  in 
whose  waters,  lilies,  tall  reeds,  and  waving 
grasses  grew,  while  out  beyond  gleamed  the 
open  fields  gemmed  with  buttercups  and 
daisies.  A  great  boulder,  which  seemed 
dropped  from  some  long  ago  rock  period, 
lifted  its  rugged  sides  up  from  the  bed  of 
the  stream,  a  barren  rock,  round  which  no 
vine  clung  for  support,  on  which  no  misty 
green  of  moss  or  umber  tuft  of  lichen  grew, 
but  on  its  top  where  sunbeams  would  fall 
at  early  morning,  had  nestled  in  a  jagged 
crevice,  a  few  fallen  leaves,  from  an  over 
hanging  maple,  a  few  pine  needles  from  a 
close  growing  forest  tree  ;  drifted  there  too, 
by  March  tempest,  or  wild  wind  of  summer 
thunder  storm,  dust  had  mixed  with  the 
mouldering  leaves  ; — and  perchance — drop 
ped  from  beak  of  quick-winged  mother  bird, 
carrying  food  to  the  hungry  chirpers  await 
ing  her  coming,  or  borne  on  evening  breeze 
frorti  woody  dale,  or  flowery  meadow,  some 
little  seed  vessels  had  found  their  way  into 


2i6  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLAXDS. 

this  patch  of  nourishment  up  on  the  rock's 
summit,  from  which  a  clump  of  green  leaves 
had  up-sprung1,  whose  tiny  stems  were  tip 
ped  with  graceful  nodding  harebells. 

"  Oh,  look !"  Agnes  said,  clapping  her 
hands  in  delight,  "  See  even  the  barren  rock 
has  a  flower." 

And  Paul,  he  saw — while  over  his  face 
stole  the  shadowy  smile,  that  Agnes  had 
seen  the  first  day  they  met. 

It  was  nearing  twilight  when  they  turned 
homeward,  the  rose  bloom  was  beginning 
to  fade  from  the  sky,  the  glow  worms  were 
flitting  in  and  out  from  the  underwood,  the 
lawn  too  grew  dusky,  while  a  faint  amber 
light  shown  over  the  near  landscape,  and 
the  far  away  was  hidden  in  violet  shadows. 

Mrs.  Murray  met  them,  wondering  where 
they  had  been,  playfully  chiding  them  as 
loiterers,  and  then  it  was  time  for  Paul  to 
return  to  the  city. 

'I  will  not  see  you  again  till  the  picture 
is  hung  at  the  art  exhibition,"  were  Agnes' 
parting  words  to  him,  as  she  smiled  a 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  2 1 ; 

friendly  farewell.  And  Paul, — he  walked 
through  the  deepening  twilight,  down  the 
green  bank  sided  road  with  a  great  content 
in  his  heart,  even  though  he  had  just  parted 
from  Agnes,  even  though  bitter  thoughts 
had  stirred  his  mind  that  day,  for, — 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  his  attic 
room,  and  yet  he  lit  a  light,  and  bent  over 
his  table  till  the  grey  drawn  was  beginning 
to  steal  over  the  sleep-enfolded  city,  — 
though  on  his  paper,  after  all  his  labor,  he 
did  not  leave  a  picture — only  a  lonely  rock 
— a  gray  dreary  rock,  lit  up  by  just  one 
gleam  of  sunshine,  that  fell  and  rested  among 
the  leaves  of  an  opening  flower  growing  on 
its  summit. 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said,  "  I  will  touch   it 
.with  color,"  and,  even  as  he  spoke,  the  moi 
row  was  there. 

19 


IF  after  that  sunshiny  afternoon  spent 
with  Agnes  Murray,  out  under  the  blue 
sky,  where  the  air  was  laden  with  per 
fume  from  clover  field  and  opening  flowers, 
musical  with  hum  of  insect  and  song  of 
bird,  Paul  was  conscious  that  something 
had  come  into  his  life,  which  never  would 
leave  him  ;  he  had  no  time  to  indulge  in  rev 
erie,  or  dream  of  a  golden  future,  for  hard 
ly  had  the  sun  travelled  round  to  noon-time 
the  nexj  day,  before  he  was  in  the  midst  of 
unlocked  for  events. 

On  his  plate  at  breakfast,  he  found  a  note 
from  Mr.  Gilbert,  requesting  him  to  call  at 
his  house;  he  also  found  two  letters;  one 
bearing  the  Torapkinsville  post-mark,  prov 
ed  to  be  from  Mrs.  Blake,  the  other  was 
from  Mr.  Grey. 

Both  letters  were  in  reply  to  the  brief 
(218) 


UPLANDS  AND  LO IV LANDS.  2 1 9 

notes  Paul  had  sent  weeks  before,  telling 
them  of  the  Peace  that  filled  his  heart,  now 
that  he  had  learned,  through  trusting  in 
Christ,  the  rest  of  knowing  the  Lord  as  a 
Father.  They  both  expressed  regret  at 
their  long  delay  in  answering  that  which 
had  made  them  so  sincerely  glad.  Mrs. 
Blake  wrote  as  she  talked,  kind  motherly 
words,  manifesting  true  sympathy. 

Mr.  Grey's  letter  was  closely  written  and 
many  paged,  and  Paul  after  a  hasty  glance, 
put  it  into  his  pocket  saying  :  "  I  will  read 
it  at  noon,  when  I  have  more  time." 

It  was  still  quite  early  in  the  morning 
when  he  rang  the  bell  at  Mr.  Gilbert's  ;  he 
was  asked  directly  into  the  cheerful  break 
fast-room,  where  he  found  Mr.  Gilbert 

one,  as  his  family  were,  like  all  the  ave- 
lue  people,  out  of  town. 

He  welcomed  Paul  cordially,  saying, 
"You  will  begin  to  regard  a  summons  to 
my  presence,  as  the  sure  prelude  to  some 
project  influencing  your  future;  read  this,  it 
will  explain  why  I  sent  for  you,"  and  ho 


22O  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

handed  Paul  a  foreign  stamped  letter, 
watching  with  interest  his  expressive  face 
as  he  read  it. 

The  letter  was  from  Rome,  written  by  an 
artist  friend  of  Mr.  Gilbert,  who  had  se 
cured  for  that  gentleman,  some  marred,  half 
defaced  relics  of  ancient  art,  which  needed 
to  be  copied  by  a  skillful  colorist,  and  pa 
tient  workman,  who  would  throw  his 
strength  and  heart  into  the  task,  not  for  the 
sake  of  remuneration  in  a  moneyed  way,  as 
much  as  for  securing  to  art,  distinct  repre 
sentations  of  the  every  year  mouldering 
and  fading  glimpses  of  a  past  age. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked 
Mr.  Gilbert,  as  Paul  thoughtfully  folded  and 
handed  back  the  letter;  "  what  do  you 
think  of  undertaking  the  work?" 

Paul  hesitated  before  answering,  which 
his  employer  noticing,  said, 

"  Take  till  night  to  decide ;  come  about 
six  with  your  answer ;  that  will  give  me 
time  to  mail  a  letter  by  to-morrow's  steam 
er  ;  for  if  you  do  not  undertake  the  work,  I 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  221 

will  commission  my  friend  to  employ  some 
artist  already  in  Rome.  If  you  go,  you 
will  need  to  sail  about  the  middle  of  No 
vember,  so  there  will  be  ample  time  for  you 
to  finish  the  picture  for  the  exhibition,  first, 
and  to  know  its  fate,  too.  Think  of  the  plan 
seriously,  Foster;  it  is  a  fine  opening  in  an 
art-way,  though  poor  enough  so  far  as  mon 
ey  making  is  concerned  ;  of  course  I  will  ad 
vance  you  the  sum  necessary  for  the  jour 
ney." 

After  leaving  Mr.  Gilbert,  Paul  sought 
the  seclusion  of  his  attic  room,  rather 
than  going  to  the  little  studio,  where  he 
was  wont  to  spend  the  morning  hours. 
He  wondered  at  himself,  that  he  hesitated 
even  for  a  moment  in  accepting  an  offer, 
which  opened  to  him,  the  realization  of  his 
life-long  dream.  Why  was  it?  And  stand 
ing  in  the  sunlight  which  shone  full  into  his 
room,  for  it  looked  eastward,  he  asked  him 
self,  "  Would  he  have  hesitated,  had  he 
never  met  Agnes  Murray?"  and  his  gaze 
fell  on  the  pencil  sketch  he  had  made  the 
.  19* 


222  UPLANDS  A.\D  LOll'LAXDS. 

night  before,  of  the  barren  rock,  and  the 
solitary  flower  blooming  on  its  summit. 
W"as  it  a  symbol  picture  of  his  lue?  V 
that  brief  summer,  those  quickly  passed  les 
son  hours  spent  with  Agnes,  to  be  the  only 
heart  blossoms  he  was  to  know  ?  Must  he  go 
away  across  the  wide  ocean,  and  never  see 
her  all  through  the  coming  years?  And 
then,  the  youngness  of  his  heart  and  mind, 
pictured  another  future — return  to  his  na 
tive  land,  crowned  with  honor  and  success, 
welcomed  by  Agnes  with  smiles.  "  But,  life 
is  graver  than  these  boyish  imaginings,"  he 
presently  said,  and  he  tried  to  look  reso 
lutely  in  the  face,  the  impossibility  of  ever 
being  more  to  Agnes  than  he  was  now,  but 
never  yet  could  youth  easily  ring  the  ver 
dict  of  its  own  lonely  fate,  never  yet  easily 
believe  the  "  It  cannot  be." 

It  was  not  like  Paul  to  linger  thus  in  in 
decision,  and  half  impatiently  he  exclaimed, 
"  Why  can't  I  decide  ?  Here  it  has  come  to 
me,  just  what  I  have  been  wanting  all  my 
life,  and  I  hesitate  in  accepting  it." 


UPLANi:S  AND  LOWLANDS.  223 

But  after  all,  Paul  was  not  unlike  the  rest 
}f  us  in  his  indecision,  for,  is  it  not  so  often 
\vith  us  in  our  earthly  wants  ?  We  stretch  our 
hands  out,  like  children,  eager  for  some  new 
treasure  ;  and,  when  our  Father  gives  it, — • 
like  the  children,  we  see  glowing  still  another 
treasure,  more  to  be  desired  than  that  which 
seemed  priceless  to  us,  while  just  beyond 
our  grasp. 

At  that  minute  Paul  remembered  Mr. 
Grey's  letter.  "  Perhaps  it  will  help  me,"  he 
thought,  and  though  the  sunlight  was  steal 
ing  from  his  room,  reminding  him  the  morn 
ing  was  speeding  away,  he  sat  down  all  un 
mindful  of  work,  and  for  an  hour,  spite  the 
five  years  of  separation,  he  felt  drawn  very 
close  to  his  former  school-teacher,  for  there 
is  that  in  some  written  pages,  which  well 
merits  the  old  proverb,  "  A  letter  is  half  a 
meeting."  There  was  nothing  like  preach- 
irg  or  dictating  in  it,  yet  Mr.  Grey  impres 
sed  upon  Paul  the  duty  of  reverencing  and 
consecrating  the  gifts  God  had  given  him, 
by  the  use  of  mind,  heart,  and  hand,  to 


224  UPLANDS  AND  LOW -AN  OS. 

His,  the  Lord  Christ's  glory.  He  wrote, 
"You  cap  so,  truly  acknowledge  Him  as 
your  Master,  in  your  chosen  profession,  for 
truth  and  purity  of  thought  and  deed  may 
be  revealed  even  in  the  least  sketch  \  ou 
make.  Reflect  too,  on  the  influence  of  pic 
tures  ever  since  in  long  ago  ages,  canvass 
first  began  to  glow  with  illustrations  of 
sacred  subjects,  which  served  as  open  p: 
easy  to  be  read,  by  learned  and  unlearned 
alike  ;"  and  then,  just  as  had  been  Mr.  Grey's 
wont,  when  he  talked  with  Paul,  he  inter- 
valed  counsel  with  some  shining  truth,  ci 
with  spiritual  significance.  "  Do  you  know," 
he  wrote,  "  the  first  recorded  representation 
of  our,  Saviour  is  in  the  character  of  the 
Good  Shepherd  ?" 

And  Paul  laid  down  the  letter,  while  he 
seemed  to  hear  softly  murmured  the  Good 
Shepherd's  promise,  "  I  am  the  door  of  the 
sheep ;  by  Me,  if  any  man  enter  in,  he  shall 
go  in,  and  out,  and  find  pasture."  Go  "  in 
and  out" — out,  into  the  wide  world, — the 
jostling,  hurrying  world— where  the  strife 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  22$ 

of  angry  passions,  the  tumult  of  discordant 
aims  and  selfish  ambitions  rudely  crowded 
one  against  the  other — could  he  find  pasture 
there  ?  And,  like  the  touch  of  a  cool  hand 
on  a  burning  brow,  came  to  Paul's  memory 
the  Psalmist's  song,  "  The  Lord  shall  pre 
serve  thy  going  out,  and  thy  coming  in." 
The  Lord  who  will  provide  pasture  fresh 
and  green — "good  pasture,  upon  the  high 
mountains  of  Israel" — for  the  weary  pilgrim 
who  at  His  command,  "  goes  out." 

"  Go  in."  Paul  lingered  over  these  words, 
repeating  them  softly.  For  the  going  in, 
surely  it  meant  the  entering  into  communion 
with  Him  who  leads  the  soul  gently  beside 
still  waters  and  through  green  pastures  of 
spiritual  nourishment.  He  thought  long 
and  earnestly,  and  before  he  took  up  Mr. 
Grey's  letter  again  he  had  about  decided  to 
"  go  out"  in  the  way  opened  for  him. 

The  continuing  words  of  the  letter  were : 
"  A  dignity  certainly  rests  upon  your  chosen 
profession,  robed  as  it  is  in  the  emblematic, 
many-colored  coat,  the  mantle  of  special 


226  UPLANDS  AXD  LOWLANDS. 

favor  shown  by  the  '  Father'  to  the  child  of 
art — art,  which  has  revealed  His  teachings 
ever  since  first  representations  of  Christian 
faith  were  painted  on  wall  or  ceiling  of 
Roman  catacomb  or  later-day  monastery 
and  cathedral. 

"But  you  must  remember  the  maxim, 
'  Nothing  less  than  first-rate  genius  ever  yet 
inspired  genius.'  Work  faithfully,  then,  re 
membering  if  all  had  wide-open  eyes  to  sec, 
none  could  teach  and  none  could  learn. 
And  if  it  be  your  lot  as  an  '  interpreter  of 
Nature'  only  to  guide  one,  toward  truth 
and  that  faith  which  recognizes  in  all  beauty 
the  Spirit  of  God,  would  it  be  too  small  a 
thing  io  be  worth  the  struggle  and  pains 
taking  of  a  lifetime  ?"  And  as  though  he 
remembered  Paul's  fondness  for  poetry,  Mr. 
Grey  had  copied  the  verses — 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  Thy  presence  confessing, 

God  can  we  see  in  a  sparkle  of  ore  ; 
Flowers  and  shells  to  our  heart  are  expressing 

Love  like  its  own,  but  transcendently  more. 

Spirit  of  Beauty!  each  bough  in  its  bending, 
Skies  in  their  curve,  and  the  sea  in  its  swell. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  227 

Streams  as  they  wind,  hills  and  plains  in  their  blending 
All,  in  our  own,  of  God's  happiness  tell. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  Thou  soul  of  our  Maker, 

Suddenly  shown  in  a  gleam  or  a  tint  ; 
O,  be  each  heart  of  Thy  joy  a  partaker  ; 

Love,  and  its  store,  are  alike  without  stint. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  our  offering  we  render  ; 

Thee  in  Thy  skyey  dominion  we  praise  ; 
Lark-like  we  rise  to  the  shadowless  splendor, 

Pouring  out  song  as  the  sun  pours  his  rays." 

The  letter  closed  with  reference  to  the 
constant  sense  of  companionship,  with  the 
"Spirit"  which  was  Paul's  since  the  Lord 
had  endowed  him  with  a  soul  quick  to  see 
beauty. 

"  You  never  can  feel  friendless,"  it  said  ; 
"for  the  morning-dawn  rays  and  evening 
shadows  alike  will  be  your  companions ;  the 
opening  buds  and  blossoms  of  spring,  the  fall 
ing  leaves  and  fading  flowers  of  autumn,  the 
golden  lights  of  midsummer,  and  the  sober 
tints  of  winter  skies,  will  ever  be  murmuring 
to  you  strains  of  heart-music  if  through 
them  all  you  look  up  to  Him." 

"  If  I  can   always   feel   thus,"   and   Paul 


228  UPLANDS  'AND  LOWLANDS. 

spoke  aloud,  as  though  he  were  sealing  by 
utterance  the  truth  of  Mr.  Grey's  letter — 
"my  life  may  be  spent. in  going  in  and  out 
as  He  the  Lord  Christ  leads.  And  I  can 
always  know — 

"As  an  island  in  a  river, 

Vexed  with  ceaseless  rave  and  roar, 
Keeps  an  inner  silence  ever 

On  its  consecrated  shore, 
Flowered  with  Mowers  and  green  with  grasses  ; 

So  the  poor  through  Thee  abide, 
Ever)-  outer  care  that  passes 

Deepening  more  the  peace  inside." 

"  A  Father  of  the  fatherless,  a  God  o* 
love, — sifrely  He  will  never  leave  me  alone  ; 
surely  He  will  always  help  me  to  know  this 
peace,"  Paul  murmured,  and  a  smile  lit  up 
his  face,  though  it  was  shadowed  soon ;  for 
Paul  was  young.  Life  seemed  "beautiful,  and 
love,  love  for  Agnes,  called  loudly,  "  Why 
go  away  to  a  foreign  land  ?" 

Yet  his  decision  was  made,  as  he  informed 
Mr.  Gilbert,  an  hour  before  the  clock  struck 
six. 

Telling   Mrs.    Forbes   of    his    plans  that 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  229 

evening,  Paul  said  :  "  It  seems  as  though  all 
my  boyhood  and  youth  had  been  laid  away 
to-day.  I  suppose  it  is  the  thought  of  going 
so  far  off,  and  of  beginning  life  again  among 
strangers." 

Yes;  that  was  it.    And — something  else, 
too. 

30 


CHAPTER    THIRD. 


MANHOOD 


"  Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island  story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory, 
He  that  walks  it  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden  roses. 

"Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island  story 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 

He  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

Or  with  toil  of  heart,  and  knees,  and  hands, 

Through  the  long  gorge  to  the  fair  light,  has  won 

His  path  upward  and  prevail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands, 

To  which  our  God  himself  is  moon  and  sun." 

— TENNYSON. 

"  It  is  only  to  our  narrow  human  view,  that  any  thing 
is  lost  or  wasted.  God  gave  the  mind  to  do  a  certain 
work,  and  withdrew  it  when  that  work  was  done.  We, 
poor  innocents,  may  fancy  that  something  else  should 
have  been  done.  So,  assuredly,  in  all  cases,  it  should; 
but  in  no  special  and  separate  instance  can  we  say — here 
is  a  destiny  peculiarly  broken,  here  a  work  peculiarly  un 
fulfilled.  I  read  that  God  will  say  to  his  good  servants, 
Well  done!'  but  not,  Enough  done.  It  is  only  He  who 
judges  of  and  appoints  that,  '  Enough.'" — RUSKIN. 


I. 


PAUL  FOSTER'S  words  to  Mrs.  Forbes 
— "  I  feel  as  though  all   my  boyhood 
and  youth  were  forever  laid  away" — were 

verified  during  the  next  six  weeks ;  for  while 

\ 

he  had  comparatively  little  to  bind  him  to 
his  native  land,  and  not  much  in  the  way  of 
preparation  to  accomplish  before  sailing,  yet 
every  day  seemed  to  him  fuller  of  labor  and 
heart-stirring  emotions  than  the  preceding 
one. 

By  dint  of  night-work  he  succeeded  in 
illustrating  an  extra  volume,  which  furnished 
means  for  a  hurried  visit  to  Tompkinsville 
and  W- 

"  I  cannot  go  so  far  away  across  the 
ocean,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Forbes,  while  some 
thing  like  a  smothered  sigh  sounded  in  his 


234  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

voice,  "  without  going  to  my  early  homes 
once  more." 

And  she  knew  what  he  meant.  She  knew 
the  homes  to  which  he  referred  were  those 
lonely  graves,  from  which  no  sound  of  en 
dearing  welcome  couU  greet  him. 

Paul  knew  this,  too ;  and  yet  his  heart 
turned  eagerly  to  the  little  journey. 

"  It  will  be  such  a  -pleasure,"  he  said,  "  to 
breathe  again  the  mountain  air,  to  listen  to 
the  wind,  to  look  at  the  hills,  and  wander 
by  the  lake,  and" — .  He  left  unuttered  the 
deeper  yearnings  of  his  heart,  continuing  to 
wonder,  "  Would  it  seem  as  it  used  to?"  till 
so  lost  did  he  become  in  his  own  thoughts, 
that  he  never  notice'd  Mrs.  Forbes  had  left 
the  room,  and  his  only  auditor  was  "  Mufly," 
the  sleepy  purring  cat. 

It  was  the  end  of  October  before  Paul 
started  on  his  trip,  as  the  picture  for  the 
exhibition  had  to  be  completed  first — and 
another  little  picture,  too. 

He  told  Mrs.  Forbes  he  would  be  absent 
about  a  week ;  but  on  the  fifth  day  after  hr 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  235 

left,  she  was  startled  by  hearing  his  familiar 
step  in  the  hall,  and  a  minute  later  his  voice 
calling : 

"  I  am  back  again." 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  back  so  soon ! 
Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

And  Paul  answered  quite  in  his  usual 
tone — 

"  No,  nothing ;  except  that  I  was  ready  to 
return  sooner  than  I  expected." 

But  Mrs.  Forbes,  from  his  few  words, 
guessed  that  it  had  been  as  she  feared  it 
would  be,  a  disappointing  visit  to  Paul.  In 
which  impression  she  was  partly  correct, 
for  while  he  had  found  the  lake  and  the 

hills    around    W the    same,   so    many 

changes  had  been  wrought  in  all  the  neigh 
borhood,  that  he  had  looked  in  vain  for  the 
vine-covered  cottage — his  childhood's  home. 

Indeed,  he  found  everywhere  on  the 
works  of  man  and  among  the  people,  the 
touch  of  alteration  had  been  wondrous  busy 

during  the  time  of  his  absence  from  W 

Only  Nature  seemed  the  same. 


336  UPLANDS  AND  LO IV LANDS. 

He  had  sought  old  Phil,  who  lived  now. 
they  told  him,  at  the  tavern,  and  he  fou; 
worn-out,  feeble,  half-childish  old  man,  whc 
only  dimly  remembered   driving  over  the 
hills. 

Then  he  climbed  the  hill-path,  leading  to 
the  brown  house  where  his  mother's  aunt 
used  to  live,  and  he  was  met  with  the 
words : 

"  If  it's  Miss  Fowler  yeY  looking  artcr 
she  sarved  out  her  three-score  years  and 
ten,  wal !  comin'  a  twelve  month  next  Janu 
ary." 

And  in  reply  to  his  question,  "  Do  you 
know  anything  about  a  spinning-wheel  and 
rocking-chair?"  the  present  occupant  of  the 
brown  house,  who  was  somewhat  •'  slow  of 
hearing"  and  querulous  withal,  shook  her 
head,  refusing  to  reply. 

Next  he  had  sought  Mrs.  Jones,  the  far 
mer's  wife,  again  to  meet  with  disappoint 
ment.  For  the  man  he  asked  concerning 
her  gruffly  answered : 

"My  sakes!  she  moved  away  from  these 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  237 

'er'  parts,  I  reckon  it's  going  on  for  half-a- 
dozen  years  or  thereabout.  I  ain't  no  good 
at  calkelatin'."  And  the  man  returned  to 
to  his  work  and  whistling,  which  Paul  had 
interrupted. 

Shrewd  but  kindly  Dr.  Miller  was  the 
only  one  who  extended  to  him  a  hand  of 
warm  greeting;  though,  to  be  sure,  there 
were  others  among  the  men  who  gathered 
round  the  fireplace  at  the  Inn  after  nightfall, 
who  remembered  Enoch  and  Faith ; — the 
boy,  too,  they  said.  Yet  Paul,  the  young 
man,  was  a  stranger  to  them. 

Only  the  little  mound  by  the  brook 
seemed  as  he  had  expected,  though  he  had 
to  search  before  he  found  the  place,  so 
overgrown  was  it  with  tangled  vines  and 
coarse  weeds,  which  had  pushed  out  of 
their  way  the  flowers,  he  and  his  father  had 
planted  with  tender  care  years  before. 

"  But  it  makes  little  difference,"  thought 
Paul,  as  the  long  afternoon,  he  had  spent 
clearing  away  the  rude  growth,  drew  to  a 
close  ;  "  little  difference  whether  it  be  over- 


238  UPLANDS  AND  LO IVLANL  5. 

grown  by  flowers  or  weeds.  And  yet  1 
would  fain  think  of  it  as  a  place  in  which 
the  sunlight  shines,  where  in  spring  violets 
oloom,  and  birds  sing,  where  the  bees  hum 
all  day  long  in  midsummer,  where  in 
autumn  the  leaves  fall  gently,  and  where  in 
A'intcr  the  pure  snow  rests." 

There  was  nought  to  tempt  him  to  tarry 
in  W ,  so  the  following  day,  he  had  start 
ed  for  Tompkinsville,  where  his  visit  was 
even  more  painful,  for,  the  time  of  his  leav 
ing  there,  being  more  recent,  he  had  not  an 
ticipated  the  sense  of  strangeness  which  he 
felt  creeping  over  his  heart,  as  he  walked 
the  familiar  streets  of  the  town.  Like  the 
gray  chill  of  an  Autumn  night,  after  the 
day  has  been  sunshiny  and  bright,  it 
seemed,  he  had  felt  so  exultant  as  he  neared 
the  place,  picturing  to  himself,  from  the 
very  moment  when  first  he  spied  the  facto 
ry's  tall  chimney,  and  caught  the  glimmer  of 
the  creek,  the  greeting  he  would  meet  from 
his  old  friends. 

And  Mrs.  Blake,  and   one  or  two  ot  the 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  239 

mill  hands,  did  seem  unaltered,  but  the  rest 
were  strangers.  He  sadly  missed  Mr.  Grey 
too,  and  it  was  a  weary  task,  the  opening  of 
the  old  blue  chest — the  unfolding  the  old 
familiar  garments.  "  I  almost  wish  I  had  not 
come,"  he  thought  the  next  day,  as  toward 
sunset,  he  stood  waiting  outside  the  depot 
for  the  express  train,  he  realized  so  sadly 
that  changes  had  been  as  plentiful  at 

Tompkinsville,  as    at    W .      Even    the 

oleak  hill-side,  where  his  father's  grave  had 
been  almost  alone,  was  all  changed, — crowd 
ed  full  of  graves  now. 

Paul  travelled  all  through  the  night  ;  he 
was  wide  awake  all  the  time  too.  It  was 
bright  moonlight,  and  as  he  leaned  back 
and  gazed  through  the  open  window,  it 
seemed  to  him,  as  though  he  were  passing 
through  a  fairy  scene ;  he  forgot  all  about 
the  motion  of  the  cars,  he  was  only  con 
scious,  that  swift  as  though  on  bird-wing  he 
was  gliding  past  a  strange,  and  what  seemed, 
rapid  going  panorama  of  spectral  elms,  rug 
ged  oaks,  or  forest  trees,  tall  wierd  pines 


240  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

that  seemed  to  stretch  their  massive  boughs 
out  imploringly  ;  winding  rivers  there  were 
too,  whose  rippling  waves  sparkled  in  the 
moonshine,  like  fairies  dancing,  and  great 
mountains,  that  looked  like  cloud  banks,  so 
high  up  they  appeared,  in  the  magical  light. 
Or,  all  unheralded,  they  speedily  had 
passed  through  towns  and  villages,  leaving 
no  sign  of  their  presence,  beyond  the  faint 
echo  of  a  shrill  discordant  whistle,  and  all 
the  while,  the  moon  had  looked  on  this 
shifting  ever  changing  scene,  with  a  calm 
peaceful  light,  as  though  smiling,  not  scoff- 
ingly  but  pityingly  at  the  foolish  earth,  that 
was  so  restless,  and,  just  so  Paul  had 
thought "  our  Father  looks  down,  and  smiles 
on  His  children,  who  are  restless,  because 
of  the  shifting  tide  of  this  earthly  life  ;  just 
so,  His  presence  will  go  with  me,  touching 
if  I  but  recognize  it,  the  darkest  days  with 
light,  as  the  moonbeams  touch  with  bright 
ness,  even  the  roughest,  most  rock  begirt 
miles  tnrough  which  our  on  ward  way  leads;" 
and,  like  a  tired  child,  who  falls  asleep  lis- 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  241 

tening  to  sweetest  lullaby  mother  lips  ever 
sang,  Paul  had  felt  rested,  and  at  peace,  as 
he  looked  forth  on  nature,  who  is  thus  wont 
to  tenderly  reflect  herself  according  to  our 
•noods,  to  unveil  herself  according  to  our 
needs,  And  all  the  longings  for  companion 
ship,  the  longings  for  father  and  mother, 
which  had  throbbed  so  wearily  in  his  heart 
were  satisfied,  though  the  moon  did  not  tell 
him  the  peace,  the  stars  they  did  not  twin 
kle  it,  the  high  hills  they  did  not  chant  it, 
neither  did  waving  tree-top  whisper  it,  nor 
glistening  wave  or  flowing  river  murmur  it, 
and  yet,  through  them  all,  he  seemed  to 
catch  a  deep  restful  undertone  of  comfort, 
and  he  had  smiled,  even  as  he  thought  of 
the  lonely  graves,  and  the  old  blue  chest, 
which  were  toe  only  heritages  left  him  by 
father  or  mother,  in  the  places  he  called 
homes,  for,  more  keenly  than  ever  before, 
he  felt  that  moonlight  night,  that  his 
father's  dying  words  of  trust,  "  A  Father  of 
the  Fatherless,"  his  mother's  oft-time  re 
peated  sentence,  "  A  God  of  love,"  were  u 
21 


242  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

richer  inheritance   than  gold  or  bi 
tate. 

"  Paul,  a  servant  of  Jesus  Christ."  It  was 
a  beautiful  way  to  choose  ray  name,  he 
thought,  while  in  fancy  he  seemed  to  see 
the  humble  room,  his  gentle  mother  and  the 
strongman  his  father,  and  himself,  a  help 
less  babe,  yet  even  then,  by  their  praye  of 
consecration,  sealed  by  the  sign  of  her  ship, 
to  the  heavenly  inheritance.  Thinkit  *  of 
it,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  had  sounde  1  the 
promise,  "  Heirs  of  God,  and  joint  heirs 
with  Jesus  Christ,"  and  softly  Pau  had 
whispered,  "  The  cross  of  Christ,  if  I  be 
looking  toward  it,  let  the  world  drift  as  it 
may,  let  speculations  and  theories  run  as 
high  as  they  may,  and  surge,  and  roar,  an.l 
whirl,  around,  all  I  have  to  do,  is  ju:,t  to 
cling  to  the  cross." 

Thus  it  happened,  that  if  as  Mrs.  1  irbcs 
thought,  Paul  came  back,  "  soberer  !'  i~i  he 
went  away,"  sadder  perchance,  >•  ;-am« 
Dack  richer  too. 


II. 


HAVE  you  ever  noticed  how  a  peculiar 
tenderness  clusters  around  the  first 
of  any  duplicated  joy  or  sorrow  of  our  lives  ? 
The  first  vacant  place  at  home,  the  first 
empty  seat  at  table,  the  first  voice  forever 
hushed,  we  all  know  that  tears  fall  more 
plentifully  over  that  first  household  grief, 
even  if  it  be  but  a  baby's  grave,  than  ever 
they  do  over  the  deeper,  more  desolating 
sorrows  of  later  years. 

Unconsciously,  we  all  bow  down  before 
it, — this  claim  of  being  first,  all,  from  the 
king  on  his  throne,  who  yields  crown  and 
sceptre  to  first  born,  to  the  lowly  peasant, 
who  watches  the  trembling  steps  of  the 
first  baby,  with  wondering  love,  no  other  little 
tottler  ever  calls  forth, — and  this  is  right,  for 
while  king  and  peasant  may  love  the  after- 

(243) 


UPLANDS  AND  LUW LANDS 

comers  as  well,  it  was  the  first  who  woke  up 
the  father's  heart.  Turningtothe  higher  from 
the  lower  realm  of  affections  and  emotions,  we 
find  the  first  still  asserts  its  sway.  The  first 
spring  flower,  we  greet  it  with  a  smile  of 
welcome,  brighter  than  any  later  blossom 
brings,  though  the  after  growth  unfolds 
beauties  the  spring  blooms  only  hinted 
were  to  follow  ;  and  so  too,  about  any  work 
of  our  hands,  heart,  or  mind,  we  never  can 
feel  twice  the  same  towards  its  accomplish 
ment,  just  as  we  never  can  be  twice  a  care-free 
child,  even  though  wekeepachild-heartdown 
to  old  age.  Paul  dimly  felt  this,  as  an  hour 
after  dark,  he  hurried  through  the  dismal 
mist  of  a  November  evening  toward  the  art 
exhibition,  where  for  the  first  time,  side  by 
side  with  landscape  and  portrait,  represen 
tation  of  nature  and  ideal  vision  of  artist 
fancy,  a  picture  of  his  own  was  to  hang. 

"  Who  will  look  at  it,"  he  wondered, 
thinking  of  the  many  pictures  bearing  the 
trace  of  master  hands  that  were  to  be  group 
ed  on  the  same  wall  with  his,  and  he  linger- 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  24$ 

ed  beneath  a  gas  lamp,  at  a  street  corner,  to 
read  as  he  had  done  half  a  dozen  times  be 
fore  that  day,  the  old  quotation  Mr.  Grey 
had  once  given  him  about  unappreciated 
work. 

There  was  another  cause  of  excitement  to 
Paul,  which  was,  that  Agnes  Murray  he 
knew,  would  be  at  the  opening  exhibition. 

"Would  she  like  his  picture?"  and  his 
heart  beat  at  that  question  more  restlessly 
than  it  had  done  before.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  other  little  picture  which  he  had  paint 
ed  since  they  had  parted,  laying  on  every 
color,  even  the  dark  rock  shades,  with  a 
smile,  reflected  perchance  from  the  cloudless 
blue  of  the  sky  patch,  with  which  he  over 
arched  the  rock  and  the  flower. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  foolish  way  of  testing  it, 
but  Paul  had  decided  that  evening  should 
solve  for  him,  not  his  feelings  towards 
Agnes,  but  hers  toward  him,  for,  though 
over  and  over  he  had  said  to  himself,  "  She 
does  not  love  me,"  he  wanted  some  outside 
thing  to  decide  it 
21* 


J46  UPLANDS  A\D  LOH'LA.VDS. 

There  were  not  many  persons  in  the  gal 
lery  when  he  entered,  and  he  easily  found 
his  own  picture,  which  never  looked  to  him 
so  small  and  insignificant  as  it  did  then. 
Turning  away,  he  felt,  "no  one  will  c\er 
look  at  it,"  and  then,  straightway  his  art- 
loving  nature  forgot  his  own  work  in  the 
great  enjoyment  of  gazing  on  the  works  of 
others. 

But  Paul  was  mistaken  in  thinking  no  one 
would  look  at  his  picture,  for  many  paused 
before  it,  attracted  they  could  hardly  tell  by 
what.  It  was  simple  in  subject  and  detail, 
its  chief  charm,  arising  from  its  suggestive- 
ness  and  the  peculiar  harmony  of  color, 
which  pervaded  it  like  odor  does  a  r 
"A  Summer  Day,"  he  had  called  it,  and 
verily  the  mute  canvas  seemed  to  have 
caught  the  spirit  of  a  quiet  August  noon 
time. 

"  It  might  fitly  have  been  named '  Repos, 
said  Agnes  Murray,  as  she  stood  before  it, 
an  hour  after  Paul  had  taken  his  first  look. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  picture  with  such 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

rest  hovering  over  it?"  she  continued,  "  I 
wonder  whether  as  he  painted,  Mr.  Foster 
murmured  to  himself  all  the  while,  Bryant's 
Midsummer  verse, 

"  But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 
Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 

There  the  hushed  winds  their  Sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly,  like  the  breath  of  sleep." 

"  You  know  the  artist,  I  think,"  Agnes' 
companion  asked,  as  she  ceased. 

"  Know  him — oh,  yes !"  she  eagerly  re 
plied.  And  never  thinking  of  the  heart  she 
was  wounding,  Agnes  began  to  tell  the 
group  of  listeners  who  gathered  near  to 
hear  it,  the  story  of  Paul  Foster's  life. 

She  told  it  kindly,  calling  him  her  friend. 
And  Paul — he  stood  close  by,  though  she 
did  not  see  him, — so  close  that  he  could  not 
turn  away  as  he  longed  to  do,  without 
pushing  rudely  through  the  circle  of  fair 
ladies  and  courteous  gentlemen  hearkening 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS 

to  Agnes,  whose  every  word   he  distinctly 
heard. 

"  He  is  very  poor,"  she  began.  "  His 
father  worked  in  a  mill ;  his  mother  was  a 
farmer's  daughter.  But  I  am  sure  she  must 
have  loved  and  been  in  sympathy  with  all 
beautiful  things.  His  parents  died  when  he 
was  a  mere  lad,  leaving  him  penniless.  He 
came  to  the  city  when  only  sixteen  to  enter 
my  uncle's  engraving  establishment,  and 
there  he  has  worked  ever  since,  enduring, 
uncle  says,  more  privations  than  I  can  even 
dream  possible.  Night  after  night  he  has 
worked  to  acquire  knowledge,  till  now,  not 
only  of  art,  but  of  music,  history  and  poetrv: 
he  talks  with  a  comprehensiveness  quite 
wonderful  in  one  so  entirely  self-educated. 
And  next  week  he  sails  for  Europe,  to  un 
dertake  some  copying  for  my  uncle,  and  to 
pursue  his  dearly-loved  profession  abroad. 
Is  it  not  a  beautiful  story  of  determination, 
all  for  the  sake  of  picture-making?"  she 
asked,  lifting  a  glowing  face  to  the  gentle- 
man  on  whose  arm  she  leaned. 


UPLANDS  AMD  LOWLANDS.  249 

"  Certainly,  one  showing  great  perse ver 
ance,"  was  the  somewhat  cold  response, 
which  a  gray-headed  artist  interrupted  by 
enquiring  : 

"Did  you  say  he  was  quite  young  still?" 
And  as  Agnes  nodded  an  affirmative,  the 
veteran  holder  of  brush  and  palette  looked 
again  at  "  The  Summer  Day,"  saying,  "The 
young  man  shows  much  talent.  He  will 
make  his  way  in  the  world  without  doubt." 

"  But,  Agnes,"  asked  a  bright  -  eyed, 
jewel -bedecked  lady,  "why  do  you  call 
him  your  friend?"  And  Paul  bent  forward 
to  catch  every  word  of  the  reply. 

"  Why  ! — oh,  he  has  helped  me  so  much, 
not  only  in  my  drawing,  but  in  thinking, 
and — "  And  she  left  unsaid  the  deeper 
help  he  had  given,  adding,  "  He  is  so  noble 
and  good." 

"  But  is  he  a  gentleman  ?"  again  the  jewel- 
bedecked  lady  queried. 

"  Yes  !"  and  Agnes'  tone  was  clear  and 
calm.  "  I  call  him  so  most  truly ;  though 
perhaps  you  would  call  him  common,  very 


z^  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

com,.,  ion,  for  he  wears  patchec^  boots  and 
thread-bare  coats  now  and  then." 

Just  as  she  uttered  these  words  the  group 
of  listeners  simultaneously  made  way  for  a 
tall  young  man,  an  awkward  youth  to  their 
eyes,  who  bowed  low  to  Agnes  as  he  passed, 
and  a  moment  later  the  noiselessly-moving 
door  leading  from  the  gallery  swung  to, 
after  Paul. 

The  outside  air  seemed  cool  and  fresh  to 
him,  and  for  a  brief  minute  he  stood  \yith 
uncovered  head  letting  it  blow  about  him. 
And  then  he  walked  on  and  on,  noting  in  a 
certain  way  that  the  mist  had  changed  to 
fast-falling  rain,  that  the  wind  was  cold. 
(He  heard,  too,  the  striking  of  a  clock  from 
some  church-tower,  and  the  incessant  rum 
bling  of  wheels,  and  city  sounds}  Yet,  as 
these  grew  less,  he  did  not  miss  them  ;  and 
still  he  walked  on  and  on,  till  he  was  far 
beyond  the  city  streets,  while  all  the  time 
the  rain  continued  to  fall,  the  cold  wind  to 
b^ow ;  but  he  heeded  them  not. 

It  was  long  before  he  turned  back,  long 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


25I 


befoi  2  he  could  say,  "  It  is  better ;  it  is  nc 
matter.  Only  a  mill  hand  s  boy — what  right 
have  I  to  be  a  companion  of  hers."  And 
before  his  eyes,  chasing  each  other  like  red 
and  yellow  leaves  that  are  swept  up  and 
down  by  an  autumn  wind,  flitted  the  jeweled 
ladies  and  the  polished  gentlemen  he  had 
seen  grouped  about  Agnes.  And  then — for 
never  yet  did  human  or  spiritual  love  develop 
alike  in  two  hearts — Paul  suddenly  felt  con 
scious  that,  where  an  hour  before  had  been — • 
a  great  pain,  a  rebellious  pain — that  she  was 
among  the  rich  of  the  world,  and  he  among 
the  poor  (a  mill-hand's  son,  he  repeated  the 
words  to  himself,)  a  great  sense  of  happiness 
had  come,  for  she  called  me  "  her  friend. 
She  said  I  had  helped  her,"  he  thought. 
And  walking  through  the  now  almost  de 
serted  streets  at  the  very  stillest  hour  of 
the  twenty-four,  just  between  the  midnight 
and  the  dawn,  he  spoke  aloud  for  the  first 
time  the  name,-— Agnes, — linking  it  with  a 
pleading  prayer,  that  all  good  and  joy  might 
sncircle  her  young  life. 


252  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

Yet,  when  he  stood,  in  the  gray  light,  ir 
his  attic-room,  he  could  not  help,  though  he 
was  in  the  full  strength  of  early  manhood, 
the  falling  of  a  tear  on  the  little  picture  of 
the  rock  and  flower,  which  he  wrapt  in  soft 
paper,  striking  a  light,  that  he  might  be 
sure  he  laid  it  in  a  safe  place  in  the  trunk 
already  half  packed,  and  which  was  not  to 
be  unpacked  till  he  reached  the  far-away 
shore  of  sunny  Italy. 

And  the  picture,  it  fitted  right  into  a 
vacant  place  beside  the  little  slate  with  the 
crooked  lines.  So  they  lay  close  together, 
the  rude  drawing  of  his  childhood,  and  the 
picture  of  his  youth. 

And  Paul  smiled  as  he  looked  at  them — 
a  sad  smile — while  he  wondered,  "  \Vhat 
will  the  picture  of  my  manhood  : 

But  only  the  coming  years  could  reply — 
the  silent  years,  which  ever  refuse  to  lift  the 
curtain  that  veils  the  future  from  our  on- 
looking  gaze. 


III. 

are  some  lives,  that  seem  to  fas- 
ten  off  every  task  they  undertake, 
that  never  seem  to  leave  a  raveling 
thread,  but  like  the  skillful  weaver,  inter 
twine  warp  and  woof  firmly,  one  with  the 
other,  till  they  roll  off  from  the  shuttle,  a 
finished  measure,  of  gaily  colored  cloth  or 
snowy  linen.  This  gift  of  completion  was 
Paul's,  he  never  left  half  done  any  work  he 
began,  he  never  spoke  a  kind  word  to  a 
needy  child,  but  he  followed  it  up  with  a 
kinder  deed,  so  that  his  life  was  all  the 
time  helping  to  develop  other  li  ves.  Though, 
he  was  ever  very  reserved,  he  was  only  a 
poor  young  man,  who  never  seemed  to  have 
very  much  power,  whose  influence  was 
quiet  and  unobtrusive. 
Yet,  in  its  results,  his  life  was  like  the 

22 


254  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLAXDS. 

growth,  that  goes  on  down  beneath  the  ocean 
waves,  where  the  coral  seekers  find  covering 
the  rocks,"  little  forests  of  purple  and  white 
trees,  each  stalk  resembling  a  pretty  though 
leafless  shrub,  and  bearing  a  delicate 
star-like  flower,  to  which  they  are  wont  to 
attribute,  wondrous  power,  and  witkwhicb  in 
ancient  days,  the  Gauls  adorned  their 
shields  and  helmets,  while  the  Romans  wore 
these  coral  branches,  as  amulets  and  orna 
ments." 

Paul's  companions  recognized,  that  while 
he  was  gentle  and  yielding,  touch  a  princi 
ple  and  he  became  steadfast  as  flint,  like  the 
coral  again,  which  though  soft  and  pliable, 
beneath  the  friendly  ocean  waves,  becomes 
hard  on  exposure  to  the  first  breath  of  un 
congenial  air. 

After  Paul  had  gone  far  away,  many  of 
them  recognized  too,  that,  it  was  through 
his  influence  some  bright  place  shone  on 
the  helmet  or  shield  of  their  laith,  while 
from  some  remembered  kind  act  of  his,  a 
star-like  flower,  whispering,  "  Go  and  do 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


255 


likewise,"  began  to  unfold  its  delicate  leaves 
in  their  hearts.  But,  we  are  wandering 
from  the  day  after  the  art  exhibition. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  on  the  following 
Monday,  Paul  expected  to  sail,  so  that  not 
an  hour  of  the  brief  work-time  remaining 
was  unemployed. 

All  the  morning  he  spent  with  Mr.  Gil 
bert,  who  had  beside  many  directions  for 
his  work,  business  arrangements  to  settle. 
Paul  could  not  be  persuaded  to  accept  in 
advance  of  his  earnings,  more  than  the 
amount  absolutely  needed,  to  defray  his  ex 
penses,  "  I  am  used  to  being  poor  you 
know,"  he  replied,  with  a  playful  smile,  as 
his  old  employer  urged  upon  him  the  taking 
of  a  larger  sum. 

Scarcely  had  his  interview  with  Mr.  Gil 
bert  ended,  before  Mr.  Elliott  came,  to  con 
gratulate  him  on  the  favorable  notice,  "  A 
Summer  Day  "  had  received. 

"  It  has  been  thought  worthy  of  a  para 
graph  in  the  morning  paper,"  he  said,  and 
already  it  has  found  a  purchaser,  and  he 


256  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

counted  over  a  roll  of  bills  which  he  hand 
ed  to  Paul. 

Then  followed  an  hour's  pleasant  talk, 
and  the  uttering  of  farewell  words,  mingled 
with  advice  from  Mr.  Gilbert  and  encour 
agement  from  Mr.  Elliott.  It  was  past 
noon  when  he  left  them,  eager  to  accom 
plish  some  l«ng  cherished  plans,  which  now 
that  his  picture  had  found  a  purchaser,  were 
possible. 

He  walked  quickly  toward  a  marble 
yard,  which  was  not  far  from  Mrs.  Forbes' 
house,  and  which  he  passed  every  night 
and  morning,  sometimes  tarrying  to  look  at 
the  rough  marble  blocks,  that  were  being 
chiseled  into  various  shapes,  some  of  mon 
umental  height,  others,  into  emblematic 
forms,  or  simple  tablets. 

Familiar  as  he'was  with  the  place,  he  had 
soon  selected  two  simple  memorials,  for  the 
lonely  graves,  his  "home-spots"  which  were 
unmarked  now  save  by  flowers  and  green 
grass. 

Gently  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  cold  but 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  W LANDS.  257 

pure  surface  of  a  marble  cross,  while  he 
said,  "  Have  this  inscribed,  '  God  is  love,' ' 
ansxvering,  somewhat  quickly,  "  nothing  but 
those  words,"  as  the  man  receiving  his 
order,  asked  twice,  "  What  more  did  you 
say?"  and  then  Paul,  touched  a  plain  slab, 
as  he  added,  "  Mark  this  with  my  father's 
name,  Enoch  Foster,  who  departed  to  be 
with  Christ,"  and  he  wrote  on  the  slip  of  paper 
the  man  handed  him,  the  date  of  his  father's 
death,  while  on  the  other  side  of  the  paper, 
he  wrote,  Mrs.  Blake's  address  in  Tomp- 

kinsville,  and    Dr.    Miller's   at   W ,   for 

they  had  promised,  if  the  picture  sold,  and 
he  was  able  to  send  the  stones,  they  would 
see  that  they  were  carefully  placed  by  the 
green  mounds. 

After  this  task  was  accomplished,  and  the 
purchasing  of  sundry  packages,  which  Paul 
carried,  the  day  was  far  spent. 

He  turned  into  a  narrow  street,  and  then 
up  a  rickety  stairway  which  led  into  a  deso 
late  room,  where  he  entered  without  knock- 
ing,  for  he  was   no   stranger   to   the   little 
22* 


258  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

sufferer  lying  on  a  comfortless  straw  bed  in 
a  corner  of  the  wretched  room. 

It  was  Maggie,  the  lame  girl,  the  child 
from  whom  he  had  been  wont  to  buy  violets, 
and  who  had  learned  to  watch  for  his  figure, 
not  for  the  sake  of  the  pennies  he  gave  her 
so  much  as  for  the  smile. 

She  had  been  growing  weaker  and  weak 
er  ever  since  the  spring,  when  Paul,  missing 
her  from  the  hotel  steps,  had  sought  the 
dreary  place  which  she  called  home  !  "  She 
never  can  endure  the  cold  of  another  win 
ter,"  the  doctor  had  said,  and  indeed,  every 
time  that  Paul  came,  he  noticed  the  little  form 
had  grown  thinner,  the  little  face  whiter. 

He  had  been  often  to  see  her  during  the 
past  weeks,  "  though  there  is  not  much  I 
do  for  her,"  he  had  told  Mrs.  Forbes,  who 
now  and  then  remonstrated,  when  she  sa\v 
Paul  after  his  day's  work  going  out  again; 
and  he  would  add,  "  If  you  could  only  see 
her  face  light  up  as  it  does,  when  I  tell  her 
of  Christ,  and  of  God  our  Father,  you  wouiJ 
not  wonder  that  it  rests  me  to  go." 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  INLANDS.  2  $Q 

Maggie  knew  Paul's  step  while  he  was 
still  on  the  stairway,  and  almost  before  he 
had  entered  the  room,  she  greeted  him  with 
a  glad  cry  of  welcome,  exclaiming, 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Foster,  such  a  beautiful  thing  has 
happened,  I  am  going  soon  to  be  with  Jesus 
in  Heaven."  And  she  replied  to  Paul's  ques 
tion,  "  How  do  you  know  that  little  Mag 
gie  ?"  with  a  beaming  face,  saying, 

"  Why,  I  asked  Him  and  you  said  Jesus 
would  give  me  what  I  ask  for,  so  I  know  He 
will  come  soon." 

Paul  stood  silent  for  several  minutes,  look 
ing  on  the  little  child — who  had  spoken  to 
the  Lord  Jesus. 

She  was  a  pitiful  object  to  look  at,  with  a 
poverty-pinched  face,  with  uncombed  hair, 
a  neglected,  deformed  child,  whose  bed  was 
a  wretched  bed,  and  yet,  there  was  a  radi 
ance  on  her  countenance  which  illumined  it 
with  something  like  beauty,  for  it  bore  the 
first  impress  of  the  angel-hood  so  soon  to  be 
hers,  and  which  fell  upon  her,  like  a  trailing 
cloud  of  glory,  because  she  had  spoken  to 


26o  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

Christ.  Eagerly  she  continued, "  I'm  so  g 
He  told  it  to  me,  and,  I  don't  know  how  1  le 
did  it  ;but,  it  came  right  into  my  heart,'  Mag 
gie,  I'm  coming  for  ye  soon,'  "  and  she  stretch 
ed  her  little  hand,  such  a  wasted  little  hand, 
out  toward  Paul,  asking,  "  Arn't  you  glad 
too,  Mr.  Foster?" 

"  Yes,  very  glad,"  Paul  replied,  and  he 
thought  of  the  land  where  sorrow  and  want 
are  unknown,  and  where  the  child  would  be 
before  long,  and  then  he  sat  down  and  told 
her  the  story  his  mother  had  told  him  when 
he  was  a  little  boy,  of  the  green  pastures, 
and  the  still  waters.  But  most  of  all,  he 
dwelt  on  the  gladness  that  Maggie  would 
know  there,  because  all  the  time  she  would 
be  with  Christ,  the  Shepherd  who  "  carries 
the  lambs  in  1 1  is  bosom." 

While  Paul  talked  to  the  child,  holding 
her  hand  in  his,  the  shadows  had  deepened 
in  the  room,  where  it  grew  dark  early ; 
and  yet  it  was  light  to  Paul,  for  almost 
it  seemed  as  though  the  Lord  Christ,  of 
whom  he  spoke,  was  there  in  visible  form. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  261 

close  beside  him  in  the  dingy  room,  so  close, 
almost  he  felt  as  though  his  heart  were 
throbbing  against  the  Master's  heart,  as 
though  he  were  clinging  to  a  loving  warm 
Hand  of  help  and  comfort,  outstretching 
from  the  Heavenly  Land.  And,  was  He  not 
there  ? 

The  child  had  gone  to  sleep  while  Paul 
was  speaking,  which  noticing,  he  gently  dis 
engaged  the  clasp  of  her  hand,  noiselessly 
placing  the  packages  he  had  brought  by  her 
bedside,  where  she  could  see  them  when 
she  awoke,  and  he  was  happy,  thinking  how 
glad  Maggie  would  be,  thinking  how  she 
would  look  and  smile  at  the  picture  he  had 
drawn  for  her,  of  a  shepherd  carrying  a 
tired  lamb  safely  in  his  strong  arms,  for  Paul 
knew  the  child  could  read  the  meaning  of 
the  picture. 

While  he  was  thus  occupied  Maggie's 
mother  had  entered.  Turning  Paul  saw  her, 
and  he  slipped  into  the  woman's  hand  a 
crumpled  bill,  saying,  "  Give  her  all  the  com 
forts  you  can,  and  tell  her,  I  left  a  good-bye ; 


262  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS, 

tell  her  we  will  meet  again  in  our  Father's 
house  ;"  and  the  woman  repeated  the  message 
that  she  might  remember  every  word  to  tell 
her  sick  child.  She  wondered  at  it  too,  but 
lot  so  much  as  she  wondered  when  (for  spite 
the  patched  boots  and  threadbare  coat, 
Paul  was  a  real  gentleman  to  her,)  he  stooped 
and  kissed  the  wan  faceof  the  little  child,— the 
child  who  had  talked  with  his  Lord  Christ. 

And  then,  hastily  he  left  the  room,  which 
he  never  entered  again. 

Only  two  or  three  more  visits  had  he  to 
make.  A  few  minutes  spent  with  the  old 
woman  from  whom  he  had  so  long  bought 
his  lunch,  a  quiet  half  hour  with  the  minis 
ter  of  the  little  chapel,  these  were  all,  ex 
cept  a  hasty  call  of  farewell  on  Mrs.  Murray 
and  Agnes.  A  call  in  which  neither  by 
word  or  look,  did  he  give  evidence  of  the 
struggle  of  the  bygone  night ;  indeed,  theii 
congratulations  on  the  success  of  his  picture 
were  so  calmly  received,  Agnes  thought 
him  almost  indifferent,  and  as  he  rose  to  say 
good-bye,  she  lifted  her  eyes  earnestl  v  to  his 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS,  263 

face,  but  not  a  tell-tale  shadow  or  smile 
iv  ere  reflected  there,  not  even  the  faint 
trace  of  the  look  she  had  seen  the  first  day 
of  their  meeting,  and  the  afternoon  when 
they  had  walked  the  flower  bordered  path, 
(and — Is  human  nature  always  contradic 
tory  ?  while  she  was  glad  the  look  was  not 
on  his  face,  she  was  sorry  too.) 

"  All  the  youngness  has  gone  from  him, 
mother,"  'she  said,  as  Paul  left  the  room, 
"  he  seemed  so  grave,"  and  a  shadow  over- 
gloomed  Agnes  for  a  moment,  but  only  for 
a  moment,  for  new  visitors  were  ushered  in, 
almost  before  Paul  had  gone.  He  lingered 
on  the  doorstep  for  a  second,  which  Benja 
min  who  had  learned  to  feel  kindly  to  the 
drawing  teacher  noticed,  and  respectfully 
asked,  "  Is  there  any  thing  you  want  Mr. 
Foster,  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you,  sir  ?" 

Paul's  voice  was  tremulous  as- he  replied, 
"  I  would  like  to  go  into  the  picture  gallery 
for  a  minute."  And  Benjamin  led  the  way 
saying,  "  It  will  be  almost  dark  in  there  by 
this  time." 


264  UPLA  NDS  A  ND  L  0  W LANDS. 

But  Paul  did  not  heed  the  words,  neither 
did  he  linger  longer  than  to  take  one  look 
at  the  picture  of  the  kneeling  maiden,  \\ith 
the  earnest  eyes,  which  he  saw  plainly 
though  the  light  was  dim. 

And  then  with  a  kind  word  to  Benjamin, 
the  door  of  Agnes  Murray's  home  closed 
behind  Paul  for  the  last  time,  just  as  the 
broken  latched  door,  leading  from  little 
Maggie's  home  had  swung  too  after  him, 
only  an  hour  before.  He  was  very  tired, 
his  heart  ached  drearily,  and  he  had  to  pay 
for  the  intense  effort  he  had  made  to  seem 
calm  during  his  call  on  Agnes.  For  a  little 
while  he  was  faint — for  he  was  young — and 
the  pulling  down  of  the  dream-castles  youth 
builds  is  a  wearisome  task,  even  to  the 
bravest  heart. 

But  when  he  reached  his  boarding-house 
he  had  regained  his  wonted  quietness  of 
manner,  though  his  heart  sank  again  as  he 
entered  his  room.  It  looked  so  desolate, 
the  walls  stript  of  the  sketches,  his  early 
drawings  with  which  he  had  covered  them ; 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS.  265 

the  book-shelf  empty  too.  Wearily  he  lean 
ed  his  head  on  the  sill  of  the  sky-light  win 
dow  remembering  the  hours  he  had  gazed 
from  it,  looking  up  to  the  stars,  but  not 
many  could  he  see  when  after  a  little  while 
he  looked  forth,  for  clouds  were  gathering, 
"  but  I  know  the}-  are  there,"  he  thought, 
"just  as  I  know,  though  I  do  not  feel  Him 
near  as  I  did  in  Maggie's  room,  Christ  is  just 
as  close  to  me  now  as  he  was  then."  Present 
ly  Paul  remembered  Mrs.  Forbes,  who  he 
knew  all  day  long  had  been  looking  forward 
to  a  quiet  talk  with  him  that  evening, — a 
talk  of  their  Father  in  Heaven,  and  yet  it 
cost  him  a  struggle  to  leave  the  window 
and  the  silent  companionship  of  the  few 
stars,  which  were  hidden  one  second  by  the 
quickly  passing  clouds,  and  the  next  were 
shining  as  brightly  as  though  no  cloud  had 
ever  eclipsed  their  radiance. 

Going  down  stairs,  Paul  found  Mrs.  Forbes 
in  her  now  tidy  kitchen,  busy  with  thread 
and  needle.  As  he  entered  she  drew  a  chair 
up  to  the  table  for  him,  saying,  "  I  was  ex 
pecting  you."  23 


266  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

"  I  am  too  tired  to  talk  much,"  he  replied 
"  shall  I  read  instead  ?" 

A  smile  was  her  reply,  and  the  bringing 
of  the  Book,  from  its  place  on  the  mantel 
shelf. 

Paul  turned  the  leaves  irresolutely,  he 
wanted  comfort,  he  wanted  rest,  which  he 
knew  he  could  find,  and  yet,  he  hesitated 
where  to  read. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  said,  " '  how 
comfort  seems  to  flow  almost  equally  and 
yet  in  different  ways  from  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments  ?' "  and  not  waiting  for  more  of  a 
reply  than  Mrs.  Forbes'  look  gave,  he  con 
tinued,  "  the  Old  strengthens  me,  revealing 
God  our  Father  as  the  Creator  and  uphold 
er  of  all  things ;  just  thinking  of  it  seems  to 
raise  us  so  above  our  own  individual  sor 
rows,  it  is  such  a  grand  representation,  and 
)et,  this  Lord  is  mindful  of  us  all,  listen  ;' 
and  he  read, 

"  I  called  ujpon  thy  name,  O  Lord,  out  of 
a  low  dungeon  ;"  and  Paul  paused  at  those 
words,  for  he  thought  of  the  prison  house 
of  doubt,  in  which  he  had  been  a  captive  so 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  267 

long1,  and  Mrs.  Forbes'  eyes  grew  dim  with 
tears,  for  her  memory  turned  to  dark  hours 
in  her  past.  But,  as  Paul  recommenced  the 
reading  they  both  smiled,  for  the  next 
verses  were, 

"  Thou  hast  heard  my  voice,  hide  not 
thine  ear  at  my  breathing,  at  my  cry, 
Thou  drewest  near,  in  the  day  that  I  callecl 
upon  thee,  thou  saidst,  Fear  not."  "  Tell  roe," 
asked  Mrs.  Forbes,  as  he  ceased  reading, 
"  What's  the  way  you  think  comfort  flows 
from  the  New  Testament  ?"  and  Paul  read, 
"  Come  unto  me,  ye  weary,  and  heavy 
laden,"  and  the  "  Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled,"  chapter,  then  he  said,  "  these  tell 
you  my  answer,  for  when  reading  them, 
does  not  all  your  sorrow  and  disappoint 
ment  seem  to  fall  into  shadow,  Mrs.  Forbes  ? 
losing  if  not  all  their  oppressiveness,  cer 
tainly  all  of  their  bitterness." 

"  The  infinite  self-sacrificing  love  of  Christ, 
blended  in  with  the  example  He  sets 
us,  it  seems  to  soothe  away  every  pain 
of  heart,  and  mind,  almost,  of  body,  as  we 


;68  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

read  the  gospel  pages."  And  Paul  closed 
the  Book  saying,  "  I  was  tired  when  I  be 
gan,  but  now  I  am  rested,"  and  he  bade 
Mrs.  Forbes  "  good-night,"  laughing  at  her 
words,  for  she  said, 

"  What  have  you  done  to  yourself  Mr. 
Foster?  you  seem  years  older  than  you  did 
yesterday." 

What  had  he  done?  What  do  any  of  us 
do,  to  bring  the  something  into  look  and 
manner,  that  heralds  more  surely  than  re 
corded  date  in  family  Bible  can,  "  he  is  a 
man  now" — "she  a  woman?"  It  matters 
not  whether  we  can  solve  the  question,  if 
only  like  Paul — 

"  By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines  f 

If  only — 

"Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn. 
.     In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child  like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 


IV 


DID  you  ever  wake  up  early,  very  early 
before  the  sun  had  risen,  when  the 
eastern  horizon  was  glowing  with  violet 
and  golden  hues,  when  the  sky  above  was 
solemnly  peaceful,  and  yet  glorified  "  by 
even  the  intent  of  holding  the  day-glory  ?" 

Did  you  ever  lookout  on  broad  fields  and 
meadows,  when  all  the  flowers  and  grass 
blades  were  glistening  with  starry  dew- 
drops, — when  the  air  was  jubilant  with  song 
of  birds  and  all  nature  glad  ?  If  you  know 
this  morning-time,  you  know  too,  how  the 
after  coming  hours  dim  the  dawn  glow,  rob 
away  the  glistening  dew  drops  from  flower 
and  leaf,  and  hush  the  bird  songs.  And  yet, 
how  powerless  the  touch  of  change  that 
comes  with  mid-day,  and  westward  moving 
sun,  is  to  steal  one  ray  of  brightness  from  the 
23* 


270  UPLANDS  AND  LO  INLANDS. 

memory  of  the  dewy  freshness  of  morning 
which  stays  with  us,  like  the  recollection  of 
sweet  odors  from  violets  and  lilies,  which 
we  gathered  when  we  were  children  ;  for,  it 
is  impossible  to  lose  the  memory  of  the 
golden  hour  clasp,  by  which  night  is  linked 
to  day,  and  to  which  our  hearts  turn  when 
tired  and  disheartened,  the  scorching  sun 
rays  of  noon  beat  upon  us,  or  the  rude  toss- 
ings  of  this  earth  life  shadow  us. 

It  was  thus  Paul  ever  remembered  his 
first  waking  hour  of  the  cloudless  Sabbath 
that  followed  the  clouded  sky  of  Saturday. 
It  will  be  such  a  peaceful  "rest-day,"  he 
thought,  and  he  planned  going  to  church  in 
the  morning,  and  spending  the  afternoon 
with  little  Maggie,  and  saying  to  the  child 
the  good-bye  which  he  had  left  with  her 
mother. 

But  all  Paul's  plans  were  changed,  for  as 
the  early  bells  which  rang  an  hour  before  the 
service  time,  began  from  a  hundred  church 
towers,  to  send  out  their  glad  peals,  Mrs.  For- 
b^-s  knocked  at  his  door  and  handed  him  a 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


271 


note,  which  proved  to  be  a  hastily  written 
word  from  the  captain  of  the  sailing  vessel, 
on  which  he  had  engaged  passage.  It  said, 
"  on  account  of  the  fair  wind,  the  Sea  Spray 
would  draw  anchor  at  noon  that  day  rather 
than  waiting  for  the  next,  and  that  Mr. 
Foster  must  be  on  board  by  eleven  o'clock." 

A  busy  hour  of  preparation  followed,  and 
then  a  hasty  parting  from  Mrs.  Forbes  and 
one  or  two  of  his  friends,  who  lodged  in  her 
house,  and  Paul,  just  as  the  bells  were  ring 
ing  again,  went  forth  to  begin  once  more  a 
life  among  strangers. 

Before  nightfall  the  ship  was  ploughing 
along  through  the  deep  blue  waters,  while 
the  distant  line  of  the  home-land  grew 
fainter  every  passing  hour.  Even  the  low- 
lying  farthest  seaward-reaching  shores  faded 
at  last,  while  gently  the  sun  sank  lower  and 
and  lower,  till,  by-and-by,  it  slipped  away 
out  of  sight,  and,  with  never  a  thing  be 
tween,  the  stretch  of  water  met  the  blue 
sky. 

"  We  are  out  of  sight  of  land,"  the  cap- 


272  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.' 

tain  said.  "  A  good  omen,  Mr.  Foster,  we 
sailors  think  it,  to  set  sail  on  Sunday,"  and 
he  lingered  near  Paul  for  a  few  minutes' 
chat. 

After  that,  Paul  sat  long  on  the  deck,  sc 
long  that  when  he  entered  the  cabin  below 
darkness  had  settled  down  over  the  ocean. 

It  seemed  so  strange  to  him,  the  thought 
that  yesterday  at  that  hour  he  was  sitting 
reading  to  Mrs.  Forbes,  and  now,  with  only 
the  bridge  of  a  day  between,  he  was  sailing 
away  over  the  broad  Atlantic.  He  closed 
his  eyes  and  listened  to  the  splashing  of  the 
waves  against  the  vessel's  side.  It  was  a 
pleasant  sound  to  him,  fraught  with  in 
ination-waking  pictures,  and  for  an  hour  01 
more  he  lay  quite  still,  listening  to  the  song 
of  the  sea- waves,  and  then  he  thought  of  tin 
ringing  church-bells  to  which  he  had  hcark 
ened  at  morning. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  "  they  were  the  las 
land-music  I  heard.  I  am  glad  the  echo  ok 
their  chimes  has  come  with  me  out  to  sea.' 
And  he  fell  into  wondering:  whether  tin 


(JPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  273 

soul,  passing  from  earth  to  the  heavenly 
world,  carried  with  it  the  memory  of  the 
last  sound  that  fell  on  the  mortal  ear.  He 
wondered,  too,  whether  the  changes  of  life 
were  wont  to  come  thus  suddenly.  Would 
that  last  great  change  from  this  life  into  the 
next  come  thus  ?  Was  it  just  the  passing 
from  "  one  room  into  the  next" — passing  from 
the  dark  room  of  sin  and  trouble  into  the  light 
and  endless  joy  of  the  upper  room,  in  the 
Father's  house,  that  many-mansioned  Home  ? 

"  Many  mansions" — Paul  pondered  over 
the  words.  Did  they  mean  many  in  num 
ber,  or  many  in  variety  ?  Was  there  a 
great  house  open  to  all  who  entered  through 
the  Door,  Christ,  or  were  there  special 
houses  prepared  for  each  one  ? 

Other  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind, 
thoughts  that  were  prayers,  in  which  Agnes 
Murray's  name  found  a  place  close  beside 
the  name  of  little  Maggie,  the  deformed 
child  ;  for  as  he  prayed,  the  barrier  of  social 
position  faded  and  grew  dim,  like  the  reced 
ing  line  of  the  vanished  shore. 


274  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

But  it  was  Agnes's  name  he  murmured 
last,  for  as  the  soul  climbed  the  "silver-shin 
ing  stair  that  leads  to  God's  great  treasure- 
house,"  there  was  no  blessing  or  no  boon 
stored  there  that  for  her  he  did  not  ask. 
And  as  he  prayed,  he  uttered,  "  that  none  in 
heaven  or  earth  might  hinder  it,  that  other 
Name,"  the  strong  Name,  of  Him  who  said, 
"Ask  what  ye  will,  in  my  name."  And 
then,  like  a  tired  child,  Paul,  even  while  he 
prayed,  fell  asleep ;  and  all  night  long  the 
ship  sailed  on  over  the  broad  waters. 


V. 


THE  days  which  followed  were  full  of 
enjoyment    to    Paul,   whose    beauty- 
loving   soul   was   thrilled   by  the    wonders 
and  glories  the  sea  revealed  to  him  every 
hour. 

He  could  not  tell  which  he  liked  best,  the 
morning  or  the  night,  when  it  sometimes 
seemed  as  "  though  the  ocean  were  intent 
upon  giving  back  the  floods  of  light  which 
it  had  received  during  the  day."  For  after 
the  sun  had  sunk  beneath  the  horizon,  a  new 
light  would  dawn  upon  the  waves,  shining 
in  crowds  of  star-like  points,  which  studded 
the  ship's  way,  and  broke  into  a  thousand 
sparkling  gems,  which  were  scattered  broad 
cast  as  the  waves  dashed  against  the  vessel's 
sides.  Or  now  and  then,  when  the  sea  was 

(275) 


276  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

calm,  like  millions  of  twinkling  stars  the} 
looked,  quivering-  with  numerous  lights. 

Paul  never  wearied  of  sitting  on  deck 
watching  it  all.  A  peculiar  sense  of  peace 
the  breadth  of  the  far-reaching  out-look 
gave  him.  The  varying  colors  of  sky  and 
ocean  were,  too,  a  perpetual  source  of  de 
light,  brilliant  as  they  were  sometimes,  daz 
zling  almost  to  his  eyes  : 

"  Yet  when  did  aught  beneath  the  open  sky 
Seem  harsh  or  violent  ?" 

Picture  after  picture  he  planned,  those 
days — of  sunrises,  when  the  rosy  clouds 
seemed  resting  on  the  golden  waves — of 
sunsets,  when  tender  lights  vied  and  blended 
in  with  recollections  of  the  fading  brightness. 
And  other  sketches  he  planned,  in  which 
moonlight  gleamed  in  between  white  sails 
and  shone  on  the  foam-capped  waves,  while 
it  traced  with  a  silvery  touch  the  outline  of 
fleecy  clouds,  sailing  over  the  upper  blue 
tranquilly  as  he  sailed  over  the  fathomless 
ocean. 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS, 

His  pencil  was  constantly  busy  during  the 
calm  hours  of  his  voyage,  sometimes  he 
strove,  too.  to  catch  the  look  of  the  storm- 
tossed  waters,  when  the  crested  waves  with 
the  white  foam  scattered  over  them  looked 
like  snow  fields.  And  when  dizzy  from  the 
rolling  of  the  ship,  Paul  could  not  use  his 
pencil,  he  would  turn  down  leaf  after  leaf  in 
the  Bible,  where  were  pictured  "  them  that 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  see  the 
works  of  the  Lord  and  His  wonders  in  the 
deep,  the  stormy  wind  which  lifteth  up  the 
waves  thereof." 

The  verses,  Paul  thought,  will  serve  as 
hints  and  reminders  when  on  land  I  try  to 
recollect  the  "  look"  of  it  all. 

His  childish  belief,  that  the  stars  were 
heavenly  gazers,  tenderly  watching  his  way, 
seemed  very  real  to  him  those  nights ;  for 
the  stars  seemed  so  near.  And  sometimes, 
when  it  was  very  calm,  he  caught  the  re 
flection  of  their  twinkling  in  the  st;ll  waters 
through  which,  the  ship  glided  so  quietly 
hardly  a  ripple  it  seemed  to  stir. 
24 


278  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

Almost  regretfully  he  heard  the  sailors 
talk  of  nearing  port.  Almost  sorrowfully 
he  heard,  some  five  weeks  after  they  set  sail, 
the  shout — "Land  ahead!"  It  had  been 
such  a  peaceful  time,  a  time  when  heaven 
had  seemed  so  near,  he  could  not  but  be 
sorry  to  have  it  over. 

The  captain  was  a  friendly  man,  warm 
hearted,  as  sailors  are  apt  to  be,  as  though 
in  some  mystic  way  the  generous  looks 
they  take  at  ocean  and  sky  broadened  their 
hearts. 

The  sailors  too,  had  after  the  first  few 
days,  regarded  Paul  with  special  interest, 
for  his  picture-making  appealed  to  their 
story-loving  natures,  and  many  were  the 
long  yarns,  the  wonderful  sea  tales  they 
told  him,  during  the  idle  days,  when  for  a 
week  they  were  becalmed  off  the  Banks. 
They  felt  also  an  unexplainable  reverence 
which  is  often  the  case  among  the  rou^h 
and  unlearned,  for  the  young  man  who 
cared  so  much  for  beautiful  sights,  and  they 
liked  to  point  out  to  him  a  far-away  cloud, 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  279 

or  peculiar  color  in  the  deep  sea  green  of 
the  waves,  for  they  all  felt  an  honest  pride 
of  ownership  in  the  broad  ocean  and  the 
sky. 

One,  a  weather-beaten  old  man — whose 
sun-browned  arms,  were  tattooed  with 
hieroglyphic  signs  of  foreign  lands,  whose 
face  was  seamed  with  marks  of  exposure  to 
wind  and  wave,  and  whose  heart  was  over 
grown  with  tangled  weeds  of  superstitious 
fears,  and  strange  beliefs,  picked  up  from 
the  many  coasts  in  which  he  had  harbored — 
grew  gentle  as  a  child,  while  he  listened  to 
Paul  reading  one  Sunday  to  a  sick  sailor 
lad,  and  yet  all  Paul  read  were  the  verses 
written  in  Luke  fifteenth.  That  very  eve 
ning  when  Paul  was  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
the  old  man  approached  him  saying,  in  a 
smothered  voice, 

"  Would  ye  mind  telling  me,  low-like,  so 
my  comrades  don't  hear,  them  verses  ye 
read  this  morning,  about  the  sheep  ?  I  reck 
on  I  know  the  first  of  'em,  but 's  the  last  I 
want  to  hear,  about  the  findin'  on  V 


23o  UPLANDS  AMD  LOWLANDS. 

And  Paul  whispered, 

"  And  when  he  had  found  it,  he  laid  it  on 
nis  shoulder  rejoicing ;  and  when  he  cometh 
home,  he  calleth  together  his  friends,  say 
ing  unto  them,  Rejoice  with  me,  for  I  have 
found  my  sheep  which  was  lost.  I  say  unto 
you,  that  likewise  joy  shall  be  in  heaven  over 
one  sinner  that  rcpenteth." 

"  Them's  wonderful  words,"  the  old  man 
said  after  a  silence  ;  and,  he  lifted  his  eyes  up 
to  the  stars,  at  which  Paul  was  gazing;  and 
then  in  a  tone  lower,  gentler  if  possible 
than  it  was  before,  Paul  whispered, 

"  Look  higher  than  the  stars,  if  you  would 
see  the  Shepherd."  And  the  old  man  knew 
Paul's  meaning,  and,  who  can  tell — it  takes 
such  a  minute  for  the  eye  of  faith  to  find 
Him,  our  Lord  Christ — what  the  old  sailor 
saw  that  night ! 

He  did  not  tarry  for  more  words  with 
Paul,  and  there  was  need  for  no  more;  in 
deed,  he  hardly  spoke  to  him  again,  till  on  the 
very  day  of  landing,  when  he  brought  a  curi 
ous  shel ,  banded  by  rainbow  colors,  saying. 


UPLANDS  AND  L 0  WLANDS.  28 1 

"  Take  this  Mr.  Foster,  as  a  kind  o'  keep 
sake  of  an  old  tar,  who  won't  forget  Him. 
you  know,"  and  he  looked  up  as  he  warmly 
shook  Paul's  hand,  and  hastily  he  turned 
away,  whistling  a  sailor's  tune,  without 
waiting  for  a  word  from  Paul,  whose  voy 
age  was  ended — who  an  hour  later  trod  the 
soil  of  a  foreign  land. 


VI. 

THTTE  must  not  linger  to  follow  Paul  in 
V  V  his  journeyings  through  strange  lands 
and  among  stranger  peoples.  Enough  to 
tell,  that  every  hour  came  laden  to  him 
with  new  sensations,  and  new  revelations, 
of  nature's  beauty,  and  art's  interpretations 
of  that  beauty;  enough  to  tell,  that  the  days 
sped  on  rapid  wing,  till  they  numbered 
weeks,  since  he  bade  good-bye  to  the  friend 
ly  captain  and  sailors  of  the  good  ship,  "  Sea 
Spray,"  before  he  took  his  seat,  in  a  crowd 
ed  diligence  which  was  just  starting  from 
Civita  Vecchia  for  Rome. 

Only  by  an  effort  did  he  control  the  ex 
citement  which  thrilled  his  heart,  as  he  re- 
alized,  he  would  so  soon,  enter  the  city  of 
his  dreams,  for  while  he  was,  peculiarly 
alive  to  the  truth,  that  "  all  things,  whk.. 
(282) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  283 

surround  us,  contain  in  themselves  matter 
for  contemplation,  for  enjoyment  and  de 
light  both  for  the  mind  and  feelings,"  he 
was  sensitive  to  the  dignity,  sacredness,  and 
mystery,  with  which  the  records  of  the 
past,  invest  every  stone  of  the  city  toward 
which  he  journeyed,  and  the  rolling  slopes 
of  the  Campagna,  over  which  the  coach 
rumbled  along  so  indifferently,  were  to 
him  "  thought  wakeners." 

He  was  glad  the  sunlight  rested  over  it  all 
— glad  the  tall,  skeleton  grasses  waved  in  the 
breeze,  blowing  over  the  blue  waters  ;  for 
he  felt  as  though  they  were  nodding  in 
greeting  to  him,  just  as  he  felt  the  waves  that 
played  around  the  black,  jagged,  half-sunken 
rocks  near  the  shore  were  smiling  a  wel 
come,  as  they  broke  into  foamy  wavelets. 
Even  the  lonely  watch-towers,  gray  with 
age,  did  not  look  dreary  so  brightly  the 
sun  shone. 

And  when  their  way  struck  inward,  when 
the  country  grew  every  minute  increas 
ingly  desolate  and  lonely,  Paul  found  a 


284  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

charm  in  its  weird  desolation;  for,  while  the 
silence,  the  sadness  of  it,  and  the  moaning 
of  the  wind,  were  fraught  to  him  with 
echoing  whispers,  they  were  not  mournful 
echoes. 

The  day  was  nearing  its  close,  when  from 
the  summit  of  a  slowly-ascended  hill-slope, 
towering  above  the  city,  which  was  yet 
hidden,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  St.  Peter's 
lofty  dome  ;  and  then  again  the  coach 
rumbled  over  the  desolate  Campagna. 

As  they  approached  the  city,  the  road 
became  more  populated,  till  at  last  they 
halted  for  a  second.  And  a  minute  after, 
Paul  knew  that  he  was  in  Rome,  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Cathedral's  dome,  golden 
with  the  rays  of  sunset  glory;  within  sound 
of  the  clanging  of  the  bell  from  its  belfry ; 
within  sight  of  the  groups  of  gayly-drcssed 
men,  women,  and  children,  wandering  forth 
in  the  great  Piazza,  where  the  old  Egyptian 
obelisk  in  the  centre  "  pointed  its  lean  finger 
to  the  sky"  like  a  warning  sentinel  from 
some  by-gone  time,  and  where  the  fountains, 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  285 

as  though  laughing  at  age,  played  and 
waved  their  sprayey  columns  to  and  fro, 
till  they  broke  into  a  thousand  sparkling 
drops. 


VII. 

~T)  EAUTIFUL  days  followed ;  days  when 
-L)  Paul  wandered  for  hours  amid  the 
falling  pillars,  crumbling  arches,  and  ruined 
temples;  days  when  his  heart  beat  high  as 
he  stood  with  uplifted  gaze  before  the  work 
of  Painter  and  Sculptor;  nights  when  the 
art,  the  beauty,  and  the  age  surrounding 
him  seemed  like  a  dream,  from  which  in  the 
morning  he  would  awake. 

But,  why  linger  to  describe  the  wonders 
and  beauty  of  Rome — truly  called,  "  The 
Eternal  City" — in  its  exhaustless  treasures 
of  art  and  historj',  with  which  we  are  all 
familiar,  through  printed  page  and  "  painted 
canvas." 

Paul  roved  from  place  to  place,  heedless 
of  the  work  that  on  the  following  Monday 
(286) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  287 

he  must  commence  (he  could  not  before,  as 
the  studio  he  was  to  occupy  would  not  be 
vacated  till  then).  He  presented  the  letter 
of  introduction  Mr.  Gilbert  had  given  him  to 
the  gentleman  who  had  selected  the  pictures 
which  he  was  to  copy. 

He  was  an  elderly  artist,  a  simple,  kind- 
hearted  man,  who  immediately  was  attract 
ed  by  Paul's  youth,  as  well  as  by  the 
familiar  language  he  spoke  (for  Paul's  use 
of  the  foreign  tongue  was  so  imperfect  he 
clung  to  the  dear  old  Saxon  words  when  he 
found  any  one  who  could  understand  him), 
and  he  took  much  interest  in  directing  him 
to  places  of  special  note  during  those  leisure 
days,  as  well  as  in  finding  for  him  a  studio 
nest,  in  the  group  of  streets  full  of  studios, 
near  the  neighborhood  of  the  Piazza-Bar- 
barini. 

It  was  an  upper  room,  a  tiny  nook  of  a 
place,  so  far  up  that  not  many  of  the  visitors 
who  constantly  sought  the  studios  below,  to 
make  purchases,  or  to  watch  the  progress 
of  unfinisned  pictures,  would  ever  find  their 


288  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

\ 
way  up  to  him,  Paul  thought,  which  at  first 

made  but  little  difference,  as  for  months  he 
was  busy  copying. 

Something  of  a  home  feeling  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  little  place  from  the  first 
moment  he  entered  it.  He  thought,  per 
haps,  it  came  from  being  so  in  the  midst  of 
studios  and  art-lovers  ;  for  sculptors  and 
painters,  men  and  women,  from  many  na 
tions,  were  all  clustered  together  there, 
working  at  their  chosen  profession. 

Or  perhaps  Paul  thought,  "It  may  seem 
home-like  because  it  is  so  high  up."  And 
he  looked  out  at  the  blue  sky,  bending  over 
the  great  city  as  tenderly  as  it  over-arched 
his  father  and  mother's  graves,  in  the  dis 
tant  land  of  his  birth. 

And — for  Paul  was  young— he  thought, 
too,  the  same  blue  sky  is  bending  over 
Agnes  Murray.  And  this  thought  would 
win  a  smile  to  his  lips,  where  smiles  played 
not  over-much  after  he  began  work  in 
Rome ;  for  it  was  a  wearisome  life  he  led,  a 
life  of  hard  work.  But  when  the  year  after 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS. 


289 


he  left  America  came  to  a  close,  he  had 
completed  the  last  copy  for  Mr.  Gilbert,  and 
cancelled  the  last  dollar  of  his  indebtedness, 
and  now  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  am  free.  No 
longer  need  1  feel  like  a  bird  singing"  (for  it 
was  singing  to  Paul,  just  the  handling  of 
brush  and  palette)  "  in  a  cage,  powerless  to 
escape  beyond  the  bars  of  prescribed  work," 
and  he  thought  almost  with  pity  of  the 
gay-plumaged  songsters  who  were  prisoners, 
spite  their  songs  and  gilded  cages. 

It  was  a  spring  day  of  the  following  year, 
when  one  bright  morning,  Paul  shouldered 
his  knapsack,  color-box,  and  sketching-case, 
and  locked  the  door  of  his  studio,  which  he 
did  not  expect  to  open  for  many  weeks. 

Thus  he  started  forth,  with  the  sun  shin 
ing  about  him,  while  violets  perfumed  the 
air  and  "daisies  snowed  the  meadows,"  to 
wander  all  through  the  summer  days  by  the 
calm  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  far 
beyond  out  into  the  country  of  snow-capped 
mountains  and  flowery  vales,  through  lands 
which  were  beautiful  as  the  song  of  a  poet. 
25 


290 


UPLANDS  A.\'D  LOWLANDS. 


Paul  never  felt  once,  through  all  those 
summer  days,  the  cold  pressure  of  want. 
His  little  pocket-book  was  always  full.  For 
many  and  many  were  the  sketches  of  cy- 
-s  or  pine,  of  distant  mountain,  or  near 
landscape,  that  tourists  eagerly  purchased 
from  the  young  man,  who  never  asked  them 
to  buy  his  sketches,  and  yet  gladly  parted 
with  them  when  asked. 

So  it  happened,  that  when  the  summer 
ended,  and  Paul  returned  to  Rome,  he 
brought  with  him  a  goodly  pile  of  coins, 
honest-earned  coins,  the  fruit  of  his  "  true  to 
Nature"  sketches. 

And  here,  let  those  of  our  readers  who 
have  turned  the  pages  of  this  little  book  for 
the  story  written  in  it,  leave  it;  for  soon 
after  Paul  Foster  re-entered  his  studio,  life 
— the  real  life  which  runs  like  a  thread  be 
neath  our  tale,  pressed  heavily  upon  him,  so 
heavily,  that  shadows  darkened  with  every 
passing  day  of  the  winter,  till  at  last  the) 
were  dispelled  by  the  dawn  of — another 
spring. 


VIII. 

FOR  a  month  before  Christmas,  the 
streets  of  Rome  were  crowded,  the 
sound  of  music  was  heard  from  morning  till 
nightfall,  but  only  echoing  notes  of  songlets, 
or  far  away  strains  of  harpists  found  their 
way  up  to  Paul's  room.  Not  once  did  he 
hear  the  sound  of  a  stranger's  tread  on  the 
narrow  stair-way  leading  to  it,  and  yet,  he 
toiled  on,  never  losing  from  his  heart  the 
hope  of  a  coming  purchaser  for  the  picture 
so'  nearly  completed.  But  no  one  came, — 
and  the  handful  of  coins  he  had  left,  when 
the  summer  tour  ended,  grew  less  and  less 
every  day. 

"  You  must  change  your  style,"  the  young 
money-making  artists  said ;  "  you  must  bow  to 
the  popular  taste.  All  these  visitors  throng- 
ton 


292  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

ing  the  city  are  not  keen-eyed  art  lovers 
Paint  for  them,  if  you  would  make  money ; 
the  few  connoisseurs  will  never  look  beyond 
the  far  famed  studios  below,"  and  the  young 
men  laughed  at  Paul,  as  gaily  they  added, 

"  What  are  we  painters,  but  men  free  to 
chase  the  shadows  of  our  fancy  ?"  But  Paul 
read  a  deeper  meaning  in  picture  making 
than  evei  his  gay  -  hearted  companions 
dreamed,-  -a  meaning  which  made  him 
scorn  to  slight,  by  superficial  touch,  or  false 
tint,  the  woik  he  undertook. 

He  felt  it  such  a  solemn  thing,  this  striv 
ing  to  convey  knowledge  to  his  fellow-men 
through  pictures,  and,  the  intcntness  of 
observation  which  had  grown  with  every 
year  of  his  life,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
paint  a  beautitul  picture,  and  yet  one  that 
even  in  the  coloring  of  way-side  grass  or 
commonest  field  flower,  was  not  true  to  the 
nature  it  symbolized. 

"  Be  true,"  he  said  to  himself  often,  "  even 
though  it  take  longer  to  finish  my  picture — 
even  though,"  —  and  he  sighed  a  weary 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


293 


sigh,  as  he  lifted  the  worn  leather  pocket- 
book,  which  grew  lighter  and  lighter  every 
day,  while — his  face  grew  thinner  and  paler, 
- — his  sleep  more  restless  and  broken. 

But  at  last,  upon  his  easel  stood  the  finish 
ed  picture, — a  picture  in  which  the  warm 
hues  of  an  Italian  evening  were  heightened 
by  the  brilliant  tints  of  opening  flowers, — a 
picture  over  which  lights  tender  as  the  rays 
of  dawn  seemed  to  hover, — a  picture  full  of 
pathos  and  spiritual  meaning, — and  yet,  it 
was  but  a  simple  composition  of  a  subject 
that  has  often  been  worked  into  pictures,  by 
artists  of  many  countries. 

A  wayside  cross,  about  which 

"  Nature  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 
The  emblems  use,  had  trailed  around  its  base 
The  blue  significant  forget  me-not." 

Before  the  cross,  lay  the  broken  shaft  ot 
a  fluted  column,  which  with  the  massive 
Corinthian  capital,  might  have  been  part  of 
some  magnificent  temple.  Beyond  the  cross 
making  the  background  of  the  picture,  were 
blue  hills  and  verdant  vales,  a  "  sunny  world, 
25* 


2Q4  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

fresh  and  fair,"  on  which  the  eye  rested 
lovingly,  as  it  looked  beyond  the  rui 
fragments  of  the  temple,  the  work  of  man's 
hands,  looked  beyond,  even  the  bright 
flowers, — beyond,  to  the  calm  of  the  "  ever 
lasting  hills,"  toward  which  no  pathway 
opened,  except  the  narro.v  path  that  Ic  1 
close  beside  the  cross,  the  shadow  of  which 
stretched  over  it, — far  over, — till  it  was  lost 
in  the  light  enfolding  the  peaceful  hills. 

Did  Paul  say  to  himself  as  he  painted 
those  far  away  hills,  the  verse  his  mother 
taught  him,  "As  the  mountains  are  round 
about  Jerusalem,  so  the  Lord  is  round  about 
His  people  ;"  and  that  other  verse,  "  I  will 
lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  whence 
cometh  my  help  ?" 

Did  he  think  as  he  painted  the  cross,  of 
Him,  "  the  Lamb  of  God,  that  taketh  away 
the  sins  of  the  world?" 

Did  he,  with  heart  glad,  as  river  that  runs 
from  shadow  into  sunlight,  whisper  to  him 
self,  "  The  cross,  it  is  precious  ?" 

We   cannot   tell,  for   no   heart   can    read 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 


295 


another's  secrets  ;  but  Paul's  face  was  lighted 
up  with  happy  smiles  as  he  looked  on  his 
finished  picture. 

The  following  day,  and  for  many  a  day 
after,  he  wandered  through  the  crowded 
streets,  going  from  place  to  place,  where 
picture  dealers  were  wont  to  purchase  at 
half  their  value  the  wares  young  painters 
offered. 

But,  not  one  could  Paul  find  who  would 
buy  his  picture, — and  the  Christmas  season 
passed,  and  still  it  was  unsold, — and,  the 
pocket-book,  it  had  grown  very  light,  very 
empty. 

At  last,  when  all  efforts  had  failed,  when 
hope  began  to  leave  him,  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Gilbert's  friend,  who  was  absent  from  Rome, 
— but — weeks  went  by,  —  and  no  answer 
came.  What  could  he  do  ?  he  was  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land,  to  whom  could  he  turn 
for  help?  Once,  he  sought  the  studios  on 
the  lower  floors,  he  asked  the  artists  occupy 
ing  them,  "  Did  they  knew  of  any  purchaser 
for  his  picture  ?" — and  not  looking  at  the 


296  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

pale-fac;ed  young  man  making  the  request, 
only  noticing  his  voice  was  calm  and  steady, 
they  replied,  "  No,  we  have  too  many  of  our 
own,  unsold." 

And,  after  these  rebuffs  Paul  could  not  go 
again,  for  he  was  proud  and  sensitive,  a 
New  England  youth  who  felt  "  better  starve 
than  beg."  Yet,  there  were  kind-hearted 
men,  tender  women,  in  those  studios  below. 


IX. 

SO  the  days  went  on,  —  was  it  strange 
that  there  came  a  time  when  a  great 
darkness  fell  over  Paul's  soul.  Was  it 
strange?  that  he  called  aloud,  as  he  looked 
at  the  finished  picture,  which  no  one  would 
buy,  "  Has  it  been  worth  it  all  ?" 

And,  he  did  not  ask  what  prompted  him, 
but,  he  stood  beside  it  on  the  easel, — 
the  picture  of  his  youth,  —  the  dreary 
rock  and  the  solitary  flower — and  then  he 
brought  the  little  slate,  with  the  crookec 
lines,  and  he  left  them  standing  together, 
those  pictures  of  his  childhood,  youth,  and 
manhood,  while  he  went  out  into  the  streets, 
the  dark  streets,  for  it  was  night,  and  there 
it  met  him  again,  the  question,  "  Has  it 
been  worth  it  all  ?"  and  he  was  cold,  he  was 
hungry,  he  was  young,  it  was  a  hard  ques- 


298  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

tion  to  meet  and  answer,  and  the  night  was 
far  spent  before  he  had  fought  and  conquer 
ed  it,  the  enemy,  that  had  come  in  with  the 
hunger,  and  the  cold,  and  the  disappointed 
hope, — the  enemy,  that  had  stolen  like  an 
armed  man  into  the  citadel  of  his  faith. 

It  was  early  morning  when  Paul  entered 
his  studio  again,  when  he  stood  before  the 
pictures  once  more  and  softly  whispered, 
"A  Father  of  the  fatherless,"  "  God  is  love," 
and  then  he  seemed  to  hear,  repeated  by  a 
voice  not  his  own,  the  question,  "  lias  it 
been  worth  it  all,"  and,  like  the  murmur  of 
waves  rippling  on  the  shore  of  some  "  low- 
lying  beautiful  land,"  like  the  lighting  up  of 
midnight  dark,  by  dawn  of  day,  he  thought 
he  heard  the  sound  of  many  voices,  singing 
in  reply,  "  Yes,  worth  it  all,"  while  before 
him,  Lke  the  shifting  clouds  of  a  summer 
sky,  passed  in  quick  succession  the  memory 
of  his  life,  and  he  felt  as  though  he  were  a 
child  again,  a  child  wondering,  could  he 
when  a  man  dig  deep  enough  to  find  the 
beautiful  colors  ? 


UP  LA  NDS  AND  L  0  W 'LANDS.  299 

Had  he  found' them? 

He  felt  as  though  he  were  a  boy,  longing 
to  climb  the  hill-top,  that  he  might  look 
over  and  see  "  what  was  on  the  other  side." 

Had  he  climbed  it? 

And  then,  his  pictures,  colors,  beautiful 
colors,  faded  and  grew  dim.  Was  their 
work  ended  ? 

But  the  voices,  they  went  on  singing,  and 
one  he  thought,  like  little  Maggie's,  gently 
repeated,  "  I  am  at  home  now,  with  Christ,' 
while  another,  like  the  old  sailor's,  hummed 
over  and  over,  "  Rejoice,  rejoice,  the  Shep 
herd  has  found  a  sinner  repentant,"  and  an 
other  sang,  in  the  tune  Mrs.  Forbes  used  to 
sing,  "  I  was  weary,  but  I  am  resting  now, 
resting  in  Christ,"  and  then  louder  and 
sweeter  than  all,  he  heard  Agnes,  singing 
the  glad  song,  "  He  was  my  friend,  he  help 
ed  me,"  and  Paul  knew  the  help  meant  "  he 
told  me  of  Christ." 

And  again  Paul  whispered,  but  very  low 
this  time,  "  Has  it  been  worth  it  all  ?"  And 
the  room  seemed  full  of  music,  like  perfume 


300  UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS. 

of  incense,  waved  in  golden  censer,  a»  the 
voices  chorused,  "  Yes,  worth  it  all,  for  you 
have  done  it  from  love  to  Him,  our  Lord 
Christ." 

And  Paul  knew  this  was  a  vision,  that 
came  perhaps,  because  he  was  weak  and 
faint  —  so  faint,  that  he  groped  his  way 
toward  the  table,  across  which  he  folded  his 
arms,  leaning  his  head  on  them  ;  but  first  he 
opened  the  Bible  for  it  was  li.^ht  in  the 
room — the  sun  was  up — as  he  read  the  verse, 
"  Paul  a  servant  of  Jesus  Christ,"  and  the 
sun  went  on  shining,  all  day  long. 

It  was  high  noon,  when  up  the  narrow 
stairway  came  the  footfalls  Paul  had  listen 
ed  for  so  long,  but,  they  were  too  late  for 
him  to  hear  them. 

It  was  the  artist,  Mr.  Gilbert's  friend,  who 
had  returned  to  Rome  only  the  night  be 
fore,  and  who  had  hastened  with  a  purcha 
ser  to  Paul's  studio.  Once,  twice,  they 
knocked  at  the  door,  but  no  voice  called, 
"  Come  in." 

And,   gently   they  pushed  it  open,   they 


UPLANDS  AND  LO  WLANDS. 


301 


stood  on  the  threshold,  they  looked  in,  they 
saw  the  easel,  and  the  three  pictures,  they 
saw  the  sunlight  falling  aslant  the  room, 
lighting  up  the  central  picture,  the  cross, 
and  the  peaceful  hills,  they  saw  the  table, 
where  lay  the  pocket-book,  so  light,  so 
empty,  where  lay  the  open  Book,  they  saw 
Paul,  with  bowed  head,  and  folded  arms. 

And  softly  they  said, 

"  Hush  !  he  is  asleep." 

Yes,  they  were  right,  Paul  slept — arid  they 
had  come  too  late  to  wake  him. 

26 


THE  next  day,  the  little  studio  was  to 
rent.     The  next  day,  within  the  shad 
ow  of  the  ancient  city,  the  seven-hilled  city, 
a  new  grave  had  been  made. 

The  next  day  when  "  bread  was  no  long 
er  needed,"  Paul's  genius  had  been  recog 
nized,  and  when  soon  after  his  "  government 
made  a  sale  of  his  effects,  every  bit  of  a 
sketch,  or  study,  or  unfinished  picture, 
brought  so  high  a  price,  that  his  compan 
ions  in  the  art-struggle,  could  only  carry 
away  the  smallest  souvenir ;  his  brushes,  a 
scrap  of  drawing,  and  even  his  old  clothes 
brought  a  price." 

So,  he  was  crowned,  in  the  city  of  art,  by 
art-lovers,  an  artist.     Had  it  come  too  late  ? 
had  it  been  won  at  too  costly  a  price  ? 
(302) 


UPLANDS  AND  LOWLANDS.  303 

"  No  life- 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose,  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby. 
The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect  on  high, 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by  the  Throne 
And  gaze  into  the  Face  that  makes  glorious  their  own 
Know  this  surely,  at  last.    Honest  love,  honest  sorrow, 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  morrow, 
Are   these   worth   nothing   more   than   the  hand  they 

make  weary, 

The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  life  they  leave  dreary? 
Hush!  the  sevenfold  heavens  to  the  voice  of  the  spirit 
Echo:  He  that  over-Cometh  shall  all  things  inherit." 


THE    END. 


BOOKS  BY  ROSE  PORTER. 


There  are  few  more  admirable  stories  of  tbeir  kind  than  thOM 
written  by  Miss  PORTER.— New  York  Times. 

SUMMER  DRIFTWOOD  for  the  WINTER 

FIRE.     I2mo.     Cloth,  .        .        .        .  $1  00 

A  tale  of  girlish  experiences  during  a  summer  of  travel,  in 
which  the  writer  has  delicately  woven  through  the 

whole  a  sf.ry  of  love  gradually  developed 

No  purer,  sweeter,  better  volume  in  its  way. — Nf*o 
York  Times. 

Miss  Porter's  stories  t  re  neat,  unpretentious,  and  healthful. 
Without  complicated  plot  or  stirring  scene,  they  please 
the  fancy  and  enchu.E  the  interest  by  their  beautiful 
simplicity  and  touching  sweetness.  The  characters  are 
winsome,  and  we  follow  their  lives  with  a  real  regard 
for  them.— Albany  Evening  Journal. 

WINTER  FIRE  (THE).    A  Sequel  to  "Sum 
mer  Driftwood."     I2mo.     Cloth,  .  1  26 

Those  who  have  read  "  Summer  Driftwood "  will  need 
no  recommendation  to  read  the  Sequel.—  Christian 
World. 

FOUNDATIONS;    or,    Castles   in   the   Air. 

I2mo.     Cloth, 1  Of 

A.  story  that  has  power— not  as  a  whirlwind,  or  a  thunder 
bolt,  but  as  a  quiet  summer  day,  whose  very  itillness  it 
its  power.— -.Harper'*  Magazine. 

UPLANDS   AND    LOWLANDS;  or,  Three 

Chapters  in  a  Life.     I2mo.     Cloth,     .  I  39 

Che  story  of  the  life  of  a  young  artist,  which  leaves  the 
impression  upon  the  reader  that  it  is  a  chapter  bor 
rowed  from  real  experien  ;es. 


BOOKS   BY   ROSE   PORTER. 


YEARS  THAT  ARE  TOLD  (THE).     izmo. 

Cloth,       ....  .   $1  2fl 

Tie  dory  of  a  woman's  life  drawn  throifjh  a  long  earthly 
l>i!-.priinatfe.  duriug  which  she  filled  with  rare  success  the 
crowning  missions  of  a  true  woman's  life  ax  daughter, 
wife,   and   mother— a   beautiful    life-picture.— . 
Observer. 

A  SONG  AND  A  SIGH.     i2mo.    Cloth,      .     1  83 
fhis  winning  ftory  of  a  young  Rlrl's  and  a  young  wife's 

life  conld  not  lack  In  the  peculiar  charm  which  inreaU 

this  author'*  writings.— .Veto  Bedford  Standard. 
Pull  of  sweet  suggestions,  exquisite  deecription,  and  tender 

thought.— Christian  Intelligencer. 
ut  up  with  the  glory  of  some  of  the  commoner  experiences 

of  We.—C'ongreffoUonatM. 

IN    THE    MIST.     lamo.    Cloth,      .       .        .     1  2fi 

A  study  of  a  woman's  life,  a  sort  of  prose  poem,  whose  poesy 
is  unmictakably  fine  in  its  tenderness  and  its  capacity 
to  utter  thlngb  that  arc  unutterable  except  In  true 
poetry.  It  is  a  charming  piece  of  work,  in  whatever 
way  we  may  look  at  it.  For  elevation  of  sentiment  and 
purity  of  purpose,  the  little  book  has  no  superior  among 
works  of  Its  class.— The  Ecetdng  Post,  N.  Y. 


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